Permanent
by CaringIsNotAnAdvantage
Summary: Mycroft Holmes had never particularly wanted a brother. Yet he never once wished he did not have one. A few snippets of the Holmes boys and their relationship as they grow up.
1. Prologue

_A/N: This is only the second story I've ever written, so be gentle. This is very short, but is meant to be the introduction or prelude. I'm sure I'm not the only one with these sort of ideas, but I assure you that any similarities to other stories is completely unintentional and I apologize if it happens._

_Summary: Mycroft Holmes had never particularly wanted a brother. Yet he never once wished he did not have one. A few snippets of the Holmes boys' relationship as they grow up._

_Disclaimer: I do not own anything but the plot. _

**Permanent**

Mycroft Holmes had never particularly wanted a brother. An exceptionally bright seven year old, he was well aware of the implications of a younger sibling. The child would be too young to be Mycroft's playmate, not that Mycroft _played_. Running about was dull, getting dirty and sweaty did not appeal to the boy at all. An infant would simply be an annoyance, someone to distract him from his studies and demand his parents' attention. He had not wanted a sibling. Yet from the moment Mummy had placed the blue-eyed baby in his arms, until the moment he drew his last breath, Mycroft Holmes never once wished he did not have one.


	2. Studying

_A/N: This is chapter two. Sherlock is four and Mycroft is eleven. _

_Disclaimer: Once again, I own nothing._

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><p>"Mycoff...Myyyyyycoff." Mycroft held back a sigh of frustration as a mop of curly hair appeared at the edge of his desk.<p>

"Sherlock, please, I'm trying to study." At eleven years old, Mycroft had already skipped two grades. While his classes still posed little challenge to the young genius, he had found himself fascinated by the history of the world's governments. Unfortunately, he found the more scientific classes boring, which meant they required a bit more of his focus.

"What you studin'?" The four year old persisted. Small, pale hands gripped the desk as the child strained to see his brother's book.

"It's 'What are you _studying_,' Sherlock. Stuh-dee-ing. Repeat."

Sherlock's tiny eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he tried to force the proper sounds from his lips. "Stuh-dee-ing. Studying. Can I see?"

Letting the sigh escape his lips this time, Mycroft pushed back from the desk and patted his knee. In a flash, Sherlock had scurried around the desk and was squirming on his brothers lap.

"What's that? And that? What does that do?" Sherlock exclaimed, eagerly pointing to the numerous pictures and diagrams in Mycroft's textbook. Unable to maintain his irritation in the face of Sherlock's enthusiasm, the elder brother let out a chuckle.

"Slow down, little brother. One question at a time."

The small boy absorbed his brothers knowledge excitedly, until even his brilliant mind could absorb no more. Sherlock abandoned his questioning in favor of curling closely in the safety of his brother's arms. Mycroft continued to speak aloud, his familiar voice rumbling in the chest on which Sherlock rested his cheek, lulling the young boy to sleep. When soft snores reached Mycroft's ears, he paused in his explanations. A soft smile warmed the young boy's face as he ruffled his sleeping brother's curls and returned to studying.


	3. Time to Learn

_A/N: Not much to say about this one. Not that great, just a filler chapter._

_Disclaimer: I think you pretty much get it by now._

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><p>As soon as Sherlock was old enough to know what school was, he hated it. It was completely unfair. Sherlock had to stay at home all day with only the horribly dull nanny to keep him company. The old woman didn't know the answer to any of the boy's endless questions; she was useless. Mycroft always knew the answer to his questions. Sherlock didn't understand why Mycroft had to go to school anyway. He already knew everything about everything! How was Sherlock to learn if he didn't have his Mycroft to teach him?<p>

He'd tried numerous times to explain this to Mummy, but she had simply patted him on the head. "Don't fret, darling. Before you know it, you will be in school too. You will learn all sorts of new things and become a smart young man like your brother. Just have a little patience, my love."

He tried to tell her that school was horrid and he didn't want to go there, that he only wanted his brother to explain everything to him. But Mummy would already be gone, her elegant dress sweeping behind her as she glided away and left him with that horrid old woman. Nanny would, of course, simply ignore his complaints, giving him puzzles and coloring books to"entertain" himself with and telling him to quit his fussing. Dull.

Needless to say, those long hours of waiting for Mycroft to return were torture for Sherlock. When it neared time for school to end, the child waited vigilantly at the door, refusing to budge until the crunching of car wheels on the driveway could be heard. At first he had run out to greet his brother, but Mycroft had chastised him for being so dramatic. Instead he waited by the door, practically vibrating in excitement. When Mycroft entered, he was shown no mercy. He was bombarded with stories of the dead bird Sherlock had found in the yard, complaints of how wretched Nanny was, and defiant claims that teaching him should be far more important that going to school.

After a long day of debating with idiotic teachers and defending himself against even more idiotic classmates, Mycroft often dreaded coming home to the endless chatter of his baby brother demanding his attention. Yet each time, he was pleasantly surprised by how tolerable it was. After a day of alienation and passive aggressive mocking by his peers, coming home to Sherlock's wide-eyed adoration was actually quite nice. The boy's endless enthusiasm and his thirst for knowledge were endearing to the elder genius, making it impossible to resist Sherlock.

Thus, each day at three, the door swung open, and the Holmes brothers locked eyes. Sherlock's prattle a soothing background noise as Mycroft carefully hung his jacket, set his faithful umbrella in the stand, and neatly arranged his shoes. Taking Sherlock by the hand, he would lead him upstairs, murmuring "Come along, mon petit frère, it is time to learn."


	4. Fix it

_A/N: Sherlock is around two, making Mycroft nine. _

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><p>Sherlock, like his brother, found great pleasure in books. Of course, at two years old he couldn't quite read yet, though with Mycroft's devoted tutelage, he was learning quickly. Flipping happily through his favorite book, it mattered little to him that he could not read the printed words. He'd begged Mycroft to read it to him again and again until he had memorized it. He was getting to his favorite part, turning the pages quickly as the story reached its climax.<p>

Suddenly, a horrible ripping sound echoed through the vast nursery. With a whimper of despair, Sherlock looked down at the page he had been turning, now in two pieces. Tears began to fill his pale blue eyes, but Sherlock fought them back. Mycroft told him that tears solved nothing and he must use his brain instead. Mycroft. Of course! Mycroft could fix it! Wiping away his tears, he scrambled from his chair and wobbled down the hall as fast as his short legs could carry him.

He hesitated outside his brother's door. Sometimes Mycroft got angry when Sherlock came into his room. He didn't like when Mycroft was angry. He shuffled his feet nervously in the hall until he heard the familiar timbre of his brother's voice, calling

"It's alright Sherlock. You can come in. I won't be cross with you." With a sign of relief, the little boy entered the room to find Mycroft lounging by the window, his own book in his lap.

Waving about the remains of his book page, Sherlock whined "My, I bwoke!"

Without lifting his eyes from his book, Mycroft gently corrected him. "Now Sherlock, you know I detest nicknames. My name is not 'My,' it is 'Mycroft.' Even your poor pronunciation is preferable. And 'broke' has an 'r' sound. Brrrroke."

Ignoring his words, Sherlock approached him, thrusting the book and ripped page onto Mycroft's lap. "Fix!" He insisted. Seeing the cause of the little boy's distress, Mycroft's face softened.

"Alright. Let's see what I can do." Moving to his desk, he pulled out a role of tape. Aligning the page carefully, he applied the tape with the focus and precision of one performing brain surgery.

"There, good as new." Mycroft chuckled at the doubtful look on Sherlock's face. "Alright, not quite as new. It will have to do for now though."

Leaning towards the boy, he lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I'll tell you what, if you promise to be more gentle with your books, I'll buy you a new one after school tomorrow. How does that sound?" The grin on his little brother's face was answer enough. "Very well. But first you must promise to treat you possessions with more care. Do you promise?"

"Pwomiss!" The little boy nodded solemnly.

With a smile, Mycroft returned to his book, adding "Promise, Sherlock, Promise. With an 'r.'" But Sherlock was already toddling down the hall, his newly repaired book clutched to his chest.


	5. Bedtime

_A/N: This is probably OOC, but I can't help but love the idea of young!Holmes cuddles. As I'm not a genius, I don't know if any of the stuff I describe is accurate.I'm guessing Sherlock is about seven in this one._

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><p>Mycroft Holmes was not a light sleeper. Sleeping every night was dull and unnecessary, a waste of time that could be put to better use. Because of his tendency to skip a night or two, when he did sleep, it was the sleep of the dead. It was because of this that Mycroft did not hear the padding of feet approaching his room, did not hear the door creak open or his brother approach his bed cautiously. His light snoring went on undisturbed as Sherlock whispered his name with increasing desperation. Finally, with a frantic and high-pitched whine of his brother's name, Sherlock grasped his shoulder and shook. Mycroft's grey eyes popped open, taking in the figure of his little brother.<p>

Sherlock was hunched at Mycroft's bedside, his arms clutching his sides and his eyes wide and pleading. Blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes, the older boy slowly sat up. "What is it Sherlock?" He softly inquired.

Averting his eyes from his brother's all-seeing gaze, the little boy mumbled "Can't sleep." With a sigh, Mycroft lifted his brother to sit beside him on the bed.

"Did you have a nightmare?"

"No" the boy muttered sulkily.

"Well what is it, then?" There was a pause. "Sherlock, if I'm to help you, you must tell me what's wrong first." Mycroft persisted gently.

"I...my brain won't be quiet. I'm so very tired and I want to sleep, but I just keep thinking so many things. I tried to count sheep like Mummy said, but my brain just keeps talking and talking and it won't stop!" The child's rant ended with a whimper. He looked up at Mycroft, his large eyes begging him to make it go away.

Placing a warm hand on his brother's shoulder, Mycroft rose from the bed. "Wait here for a moment." He disappeared into the dark hallway. He returned a few minutes later, a cup of herbal tea meant to assist in sleep in hand. Sherlock's knees were pulled up to his chest, his chin resting upon them. He turned to Mycroft expectantly as he entered the room.

"Drink this."

"What is it?"

"Tea. Drink up."

"But tea has caffeine! That won't help!" The boy wailed petulantly.

"Sherlock, don't you trust me?" He took the boys silence as a positive answer. "Then stop questioning me and drink your tea." As Sherlock quietly obeyed, Mycroft brought his armchair to the bedside and prepared himself for a long night.

Taking the empty mug from his brother, Mycroft tucked Sherlock into his bed. "Now, close your eyes. Deep breaths. Calm your mind. In your head, I want you to list the elements of the periodic table, as well as their properties. No, no. Don't give me that look. Close your eyes and do as I say. If you run out of elements, go through your time tables. Counting sheep is too simple for our minds. Think of nothing but those things." Silence settled in the room as Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut and endeavored to obey his brother.

Mycroft was just beginning to doze off in his armchair when he heard a quiet "Mycroft?" Fighting back a groan, he roused himself. "Yes?"

"It isn't working Mycroft. It's still too loud in my head." There was silence once again as Mycroft considered what to do next. Coming to a conclusion, he rose and moved to the bed. "Scoot over." Sherlock quickly obeyed, and Mycroft slipped back into his bed. He drew the child to him, allowing him to curl up with his head on Mycroft's chest.

Carding his fingers through his brother's unruly curls, he spoke softly. "When I was your age, I had this issue often. With minds as vast as ours, it is easy to become lost in them, despite our best efforts. I quickly learned that the best solution is some sort of physical contact to ground me and quiet my thoughts. Try again now, brother."

Silence reigned once again for a matter of seconds before Sherlock spoke again. "Did Mummy hold onto you like this?"

"Come now, Sherlock, use your brain. Of course not. I never bothered to request such a thing."

"But what did you do then?" Sherlock questioned, his curiosity overcoming his desire to sleep. Mycroft hesitated, his slight flush hidden by the darkness.

"I slept with a teddy bear. For many years. Until I learned to control my mind and calm it on my own, just as you will. Now, hush. Sleep." Sherlock nuzzled against his brother's chest, his small hand gripping Mycroft's sleep shirt loosely. Within a matter of moments, the boy's soft snores could be heard. Mycroft sighed in relief, then followed his brother into slumber.

The next night, when Sherlock climbed into his bed, he was greeted by a well-worn teddy bear resting on his pillow. He had no trouble sleeping that night.


	6. School

_A/N: Protective Mycroft is protective. Don't mess with Sherlock. Also, the title of this fic is taken from the song "Permanent" By David Cook. It was apparently written for his brother, who had brain cancer. It is a beautiful song that I highly recommend you listen to. _

_Also also, I want to thank my new unofficial beta, gryphon31. Thank you for saving me from my stupid spelling and grammar mistakes, and dealing with me texting you endlessly for help deciding what insults are appropriate for eight year olds and if it was okay for Mycroft to hit a kid with an umbrella._

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><p>Sherlock had been right to hate school. It was a horrid place. The teachers were idiots. They spoke to him as if he had no intelligence, trying to teach him things Mycroft had taught him years before. They insisted on him practicing his letters and basic arithmetic repeatedly, even forcing him to work on it at home! He had mastered those simple concepts before he had been out of diapers! Then again, as intelligent as he was, he had been quite stubborn about potty training. Still, many of them didn't even know their subject. They made simple mistakes and were unable to answer even the most basic questions Sherlock asked. Mycroft was more intelligent than them in his sleep. Even Sherlock, at eight years old, was smarter than the lot of them. Dull, dull, dull.<p>

However, worse than the half-witted teachers and the ridiculous homework nonsense, were the other children. They were so basic. Laughing, drooling, flinging things. Knowledge meant nothing to them, and they had none. Most of them struggled with the concepts Sherlock had deemed too simple to be worth his time. Of course, this made Sherlock an anomaly amongst his classmates. Within a week of school, he had already been called a "freak," and a "creep." No one sat with him in class or at lunch. At recess he read on the asphalt while his peers ran about mindlessly.

For a while, meaningless insults and alienation were the worst thing Sherlock faced. He didn't mind these in the slightest. Mycroft said they only did it because they were jealous of his intelligence, and they were too stupid to talk to anyway. He was more than content with this arrangement. Perhaps that was his downfall. Because their words and actions did not inspire the desired hurt, the other children intensified their efforts. Finding their attempts to insult him pathetic, Sherlock could not resist mocking them in return. He was clearly superior to them. They were all idiots. Mycroft said practically everyone was. So what was wrong with letting them know? Unfortunately, they did not see his logic, and their petty words eventually escalated.

Fifteen years old and in his third year of high school, Mycroft finished his classes before Sherlock. Each day he met Sherlock at his school's gate. Usually, the boy was bored and irritable. One day, however, he rushed to meet his brother, face flushed and eyes wide.

"Mycroft! Ian Clarke told me he is going to beat me up tomorrow after school! He meant it, too! He knocked out three of Russell Davis' teeth last week, and they weren't even loose! I can't go to school tomorrow! Or ever again! We've got to move, Mycroft! We've got to! Can you convince Mummy? Please? He said he'd bash my face in! Mummy says I've got such a pretty face! I don't want it bashed in, Mycroft!" Sherlock cried out in one breath. When he finally stopped to catch his breath, Mycroft interrupted him.

"You will go to school tomorrow, Sherlock. We are not moving. It will be fine." He turned to head home, Sherlock scurrying to catch up.

"But Ian Clarke swore he's going to do me in tomorrow!" The young boy wailed.

"Well I shall not let him" came Mycroft's simple reply. Sherlock tried to persist, to demand an explanation from his brother, but Mycroft simply told him not to worry.

Sherlock, after a sleepless night and a worrisome morning, was anxious all through school. He paid even less attention to the teachers than usual. He spent his day glancing worriedly at the back of Ian Clarke's head, as if he might attack at any moment. He was so preoccupied, he didn't bother to correct his teachers or comment on his classmates' ignorance. He spent both recess and lunch hiding in the bathroom, quaking in fear each time the door opened.

Finally, the end of the day approached. Not bothering to collect his belongings, Sherlock dashed from the classroom the second the bell rang. He ran as fast as his gangly legs would carry him, seeking his salvation, which was surely waiting for him at the gate. To his horror, Mycroft was nowhere in sight when Sherlock reached their meeting place. He whirled around, panting, as he searched for his brother. Behind him, a voice boomed "HOLMES!" Sherlock froze. Ian had found him. He was doomed. Where was Mycroft?

Sherlock turned slowly to face his bully. He stood no chance. Ian Clarke was large for his age, a bulky blonde whose father had begun teaching him boxing in kindergarten. While Sherlock was by no means short for his age, he was very slender. His lanky arms and legs lacked muscle. He was much more suited for running, swimming, reading, chess: anything but fighting. As Clarke approached him, fists clenched, Sherlock shrunk away, trying desperately to remember the self-defense maneuvers he had researched last night. "Are you ready to pay, you annoying little creep?" Ian barked, pushing Sherlock onto his bum before he could respond. The other children, gathering to watch, laughed loudly as the scrawny boy tried to scramble away.

Suddenly, a tall shadow fell across Sherlock and his assailant. There was a sharp "SMACK" and with a cry, Ian Clarke dropped to his knees. Looming over the now whimpering boy, like an avenging angel, stood Mycroft, swinging his faithful umbrella. Whistling cheerfully, he walked around to the boy's front, crouching between the bully and his brother. He lifted his umbrella again, pressing the tip lightly against Clarke's chest.

"You will never lay a finger on my brother again. Do you understand?" Mycroft's voice was cold, dangerous. It left no room for argument. When the boy nodded frantically, he rose, brushing invisible dirt particles from his trousers. He glared at each of the assembled children in turn, wiping the smirks from their faces and replacing them with looks of fear.

Finally, he turned to Sherlock, who was still sitting in the dirt. Extending his hand, he spoke gently to his brother. "Sorry I'm late, Sherlock. Are you alright?" Taking Mycroft's hand and allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, Sherlock nodded. Not releasing his hand, Mycroft swiftly turned and led his brother away from the school. Neither boy spared a glance for the group of children still assembled on the school grounds.

Some distance from the school, Sherlock dared to glace up at his brother. Mycroft's face was tight with anger, his eyes stonily fixed ahead of them. "Thank you, Mycroft" Sherlock softly murmured. Mycroft's face softened immediately, as he turned to smile down at the young boy.

"Of course, mon frère. It's my job to look after you." He led Sherlock on for a few moments longer, before he turned once again to question him. "What exactly did you do to anger him?"

Sherlock's face scrunched in confusion, as he stated plainly "I told him he was stupid, because he couldn't see that his parent's will be getting divorced soon. I don't see why that made him angry. An infant could see that his father was sleeping with the nanny!" Mycroft's head fell back as he let out a heartfelt laugh. His brother could only be a Holmes.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. He was sleeping with the gardener. The boy's _mother_ was the one sleeping with the nanny." Sherlock's mouth fell open in shock. "Of course! The mother! How could I have missed it?"


	7. Always

_A/N: As much as it saddens me to say this, I think this is the last of my happy chapters. We've seen a lot of the strong bond between the Holmes brothers, but now I'd like to explore what led to the cold relationship we see in the series. Just a forewarning. Please review!_

_Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, or "Of Mice and Men" which is briefly mentioned. I wasn't particularly fond of that novel, but I did like the quote I reference quite a bit._

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><p>It was a beautiful day when father left. Of course, expecting it to rain and thunder was outrageous. There was no logic in believing the weather would cooperate with one's emotions. Still, as Mycroft stood in the driveway, watching his father disappear from his life forever, he couldn't help but wish for a storm. Rain would hide the tears he couldn't contain; thunder would cover the sound of his racing heart. He couldn't afford sorrow of his own at the moment. Not with Sherlock pressed into his side, sobbing softly into his brother's shirt. Mycroft needed to be strong for the boy. As their father's taxi rounded the corner and vanished, he gripped his brother's shoulder tightly, leading him inside.<p>

Neither boy had uttered a syllable since Father had left. They sat in chairs opposite each other, lost in their own minds. Mycroft pressed his fingertips together, resting them against his chin in his customary thinking pose. With the only sound in the room Sherlock's occasional sniffles, he forced back his own emotions and focused on the best way to proceed from here. Finally, the moment he had been dreading came, as Sherlock broke the silence.

"Why did Father leave us? Is there something wrong with us?" Sherlock weakly questioned. Mycroft sighed. Their father had never expressed much interest in his sons, and Mycroft had foreseen this day. That did not mean, however, that he was prepared to explain it to his nine year old brother.

"No, Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with us," he began strongly. "Father was unhappy here. He was not suited for life with a family, surely you could see that. He rarely spoke to us, never played with us. It wasn't because of us though, Sherlock. Understand? He just wasn't made to be a father. He was rubbish at it, and he hadn't the will to try to learn. He was too proud. It's because of who he is, not because of you and me. Do you see?" Mycroft tried to speak calmly and confidently, but he was desperate to keep this from damaging Sherlock. The boy was faced with enough difficulty without this burden on his shoulders. As the eldest, Mycroft was determined to bear it for him.

"I guess so," Sherlock whimpered. "Mycroft? Mummy doesn't play with us either. Will she leave us too?" Sherlock looked so small and fragile, curled up in his chair. If Mycroft didn't know for a fact that hearts could not break from sorrow, he would swear his was breaking at his little brother's agony.

"Most definitely not, brother. Mummy may not play with us, but she does speak to us often. She shows interest in our happiness and our progress. While she may leave most of the rearing to Nanny, I can assure you that Mummy cares deeply for us."

Sherlock nodded quietly in solemn understanding, accepting his brother's words as law. Thinking back, he couldn't find a simple strong memory of his father interacting with him. He had been practicing deleting thoughts to calm his mind, just like Mycroft had taught him. Perhaps he had deleted them? He would search his Mind Palace later. For now, however, a more important question loomed in his young mind.

"What will we do now, Mycroft?" Surely life could not just go on after this. After Ian Clarke's father had left, the boy had become sad and withdrawn. He did even more poorly in school and didn't like to play with his friends anymore. Would that happen to him and Mycroft too? Did losing their father mean they had to lose themselves, even if their father had barely been there to begin with?

"We carry on." was Mycroft's gentle answer. After thinking for a moment more, he rose abruptly. He knelt in front of Sherlock's chair, taking his brother's small hands in his own.

"Sherlock, do you remember when I read 'Of Mice and Men' to you?" He asked earnestly.

"Yes, of course." Sherlock was confused. Mycroft had read the book to him a few years ago, declaring it a classic. It was a book of merit, Sherlock supposed, but he did not see what bearing it had on their current situation.

"What did George tell Lennie it was that made them special? What made them different from their peers?" Mycroft gripped Sherlock hands tightly, desperate to communicate his point.

Sherlock contemplated for a moment, before realization dawned on him. "They had each other. 'Because I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you.'" he quoted faithfully.

"Exactly. Sherlock, you and I are two of a kind. We will always have each other. You will always have me. I swear to you, that I will always be there to take care of you, even if you don't want me to." The confusion in Sherlock's eyes cleared, and his desolate look was replaced with one of warmth. A small smile graced his lips as he replied.

"Why would I ever not want you to?"

A sly smirk spread across Mycroft's face. "I don't know, brother. Someday you may outgrow silly old me. You'll be all grown up and want to do things on your own. I, however, will still be here. Always."

"Always." Sherlock repeated, squeezing his brother's hands.


	8. Goodbye

Mycroft supposed he should have been excited to attend University. Most of his peers were. They relished the promise of independence and the opportunity to escape their parents' rules. Considering that he had too little contact with his parents to become dependent on them, let alone be forced to adhere to many rules, he did not share that eagerness. To Mycroft, University would be no different to any part of his previous education. Only sixteen, he would be ridiculed and disliked by his peers, and underestimated and questioned by his instructors. By now, he was used to these frustrations; they had little effect on him. There was, however, one major difference between high school and university level education: he would have to leave home. This would make it considerably more difficult to keep his unruly brother out of trouble.

Sherlock had not received the news of his imminent departure well. His pale eyes had widened, his lower lip had trembled ever so slightly.

"But you promised me-"

"And I will keep that promise." Mycroft interrupted. "Just because I'm not here, doesn't mean I can't be there for you."

Sherlock had not been placated. "Everything will be different!" The boy pouted. "How can you help me when you're not _here?"_

Mycroft sighed. His brother was nothing if not stubborn. If he had decided that Mycroft leaving was not desirable, nothing short of a miracle would change his mind. "I will only be a phone call or a short drive away. It will be alright, you'll see."

Sherlock had, of course, made it his goal in life to convince Mycroft not to go. Mycroft's days no longer consisted of reading, studying, and occasionally assisting Sherlock with his various experiments. This peaceful routine was quickly replaced with the numerous schemes of his brother, all aiming at making him stay.

The boy found increasingly imaginative ways to get himself in trouble. He became "stranded" in trees, on rooftops, and once even in a taxi. Things were lost, stolen, and broken. Mycroft had been forced to prevent no less than five physical altercations. Each time, Mycroft diligently came to his little brother's rescue, and each time, Sherlock looked up at him innocently, asking "What would I do without you?" Mycroft never answered.

After a particularly elaborate scheme in which Sherlock paid some poor boy to not only steal from a store, but to frame Sherlock for it as well, Mycroft's patience was wearing thin. It had taken him only a few moments to deduce the truth of the situation when he had received the angry phone call. He couldn't fight the guilt at allowing the random boy Sherlock had involved to take the blame for his brother's plotting, but he was left with no choice. Technically, Sherlock hadn't broken a law, and Mycroft would not have a delinquent brother.

Mycroft's frustration revealed itself in his extremely firm grip on his brother's shoulder as he guided Sherlock back to their home. As was his routine, Sherlock smiled sweetly up at him, the false innocence in his eyes masking his feeling of triumph. "Thank you Mycroft. What would I do without you?"

Something snapped in Mycroft. He was already worried about how Sherlock would handle his absence, and this was not helping. He could not trust his stubborn brother to stop this once he had left. He would not put it past Sherlock to continue to put himself in jeopardy to attempt to guilt his brother into coming home. Now he had escalated their conflict to involve others. The unlucky boy that Sherlock had selfishly used would undoubtedly spend many years suffering because of his new criminal record. Perhaps the worst guilt of all, however, was the knowledge that Sherlock was not wholly to blame. Mycroft had allowed his brother to become far too dependent on him, and so Sherlock could not comprehend having to take care of himself.

Despite the various layers of guilt, frustration, and anger churning in Mycroft's mind, he did not yell. He did not snap or bark and or speak irritably. He turned to his younger brother, voice soft and sad as he finally answered Sherlock's question.

"Perhaps you would be capable of looking after yourself, as you should be."

The look of hurt that flashed across his brother's face would remain in Mycroft's mind for the rest of his life. The boy looked away, quickly masking his pained expression and replacing it with the furrowed eyebrows of confusion.

After that instance, Sherlock's plotting and scheming stopped. The boy was uncharacteristically quiet, obeying both Mummy and Nanny without a single argument or complaint. His experiments grew tamer, and he stopped requesting Mycroft's assistance with them. In the course of a day, he transitioned from needy and demanding to nearly entirely self-sufficient. Mycroft knew he should be pleased, but instead his guilt deepened.

Finally, the day of Mycroft's departure arrived. His things were packed, his room was empty. He said his goodbyes to Mummy at the door, not bothering to ask if she would like to come along and help him settle in. Sherlock had remained in his room for most of the morning, and Mycroft was beginning to wonder if he would even get a goodbye from his dear brother when he heard footsteps pounding down the stairs.

In a blur of dark hair, his faded dressing gown flowing behind him, Sherlock dashed down the stairs and threw his arms around his brother. "I'll miss you." he whispered hesitantly.

Rather than chastise Sherlock for being overly dramatic, as he usually would, Mycroft hugged him tightly. "I'll miss you as well, brother." Placing a hand on the boy's unruly curls, he continued. "I _will_ keep my promise, Sherlock. If you ever need me, ever, I won't be far away."

Sherlock's misty eyed nod was his only reply. After a moment more of gentle goodbyes, Mycroft released his brother and turned to leave. Years after this moment, Mycroft would look back and wish he had held on just a little longer. If he had known what was to follow, he certainly would have. In that moment, however, he could not have known that this was the last embrace he and his brother would share for over twenty years.

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><p><em>AN: Considering that I knocked out the first seven chapters in four days or so, this was a bit of a delay, which I apologize for. I'm having a rough time figuring out where to go with this. This relationship is truly complex. It's not just a matter of Mycroft doing something horrible and Sherlock hating him. At the end of the day, they are still family and they care about each other. I think it's just a matter of Sherlock growing up and finding flaws in his idol, real or perceived, and reacting in his dramatic way. _

_I have recently been diagnosed as a review junkie. So please review! Constructive criticism is welcomed!_


	9. Phone Calls

Mycroft was surprised by how refreshing he found university life. He was, of course, among the youngest there, yet for the first time he found himself surrounded by people close to his own intelligence. Certainly, Sherlock was brilliant. He was just a boy, however. Seven years was a large gap, and thus he could hardly carry on an intellectual conversation with his little brother.

For the past ten years, he had played teacher to his eager sibling. While he had not disliked the role, he could not deny the pleasure he felt at finally being allowed his time as the student. Here he was not the protector, the mentor, the eldest. Here he was simply another man, an eager participant (and frequent victor) in many rousing political discussions. At home, he was defined by what he could do for his brother. At the University, he was defined solely on _his_ mind, on what he could one day do for his country and even the world.

Even as he reveled in the chance to explore his interests, Mycroft kept true to his promise to Sherlock. He set aside a few hours twice a week, to be devoted solely to keeping in touch with his little brother. Even as he fought to preserve their relationship, however, he could feel it changing.

When he attempted to speak to his brother about his new experiences, Sherlock simply proclaimed his words boring and steered the conversation back towards himself. Mycroft couldn't fault the boy for it. He was still too young to care much beyond his own problems, and he had never quite learned to politely feign interest in others. Sherlock cared only to discuss his life and his scientific experiments; Mycroft's political interests bored him and he did not hesitate to show it.

"Politics are so dull." Sherlock whined to him over the phone. "It's just a bunch of dense people with power. Someone sneezes improperly and the next world war starts. It's too touchy."

"That's what makes it interesting, brother. You have to learn to manipulate the imbeciles out of their own way, so that they all get along. You must make them think they have the power, when really-"

"Dull. People are too variable. Not worth the brainpower. Yesterday, I was experimenting on..."

And so it went; every conversation following a similar pattern and ending in the same way.

"You should go to bed. It's getting late."

"But I wanted to tell you about-"

"You can tell me when we speak again, Sherlock. Mummy would have a fit if she knew you were still awake. I will speak to you in a few days, brother."

"But what if-"

"Stop stalling," Mycroft chuckled. "You know my promise. If you need me, I will answer."

"Always?"

"Always. Now off to bed."

"Alright. Goodnight, Mycroft."

"Goodnight, mon frère."

Mycroft waited for Sherlock to hang up before doing the same. He worried about Sherlock, and couldn't help but feel a twinge of longing to see his little brother. Pulling on his coat and heading to a debate, his concerns were quickly forgotten.

He was in the midst of verbally conquering his opponent, when his phone rang. Sherlock's ringtone. The other debaters glared at him as he politely excused himself and hurried from the hall.

"What is it, Sherlock?" Mycroft was slightly out of breath from rushing outside. Curse those extra pastries he's been eating in the cafeteria.

"I can't sleep." Sherlock's voice was small and unsure, reminding him of the first night he had heard those words.

"Alright. Deep breaths, brother. Calm your mind..." Mycroft spoke in a soothing voice. It was more difficult to sedate the boy without physical contact, and required considerable time and effort. By the time Sherlock's snores could be heard, Mycroft's peers were exiting the debate hall, giving him strange looks as they passed him by.

Over the next few weeks, Mycroft learned to anticipate a call from Sherlock at any moment. They had agreed to stick to their set call schedule except for emergencies, but Sherlock seemed to be having more and more "emergencies" each day. He sat in the back in his classes, to avoid the judgmental looks when his phone began to ring. Those he associated closely with learned to respect the phone. No plans made with Mycroft were set in stone, as the shrill sound of Sherlock's ringtone always took precedence.

Mycroft did not regret his promise to always answer his brother's calls. He did, of course, dislike missing so many important things and losing opportunities to gain connections, yet this could not be avoided. He would not abandon his brother, and if Sherlock needed him at important moments, then so be it.

Before long, however, Mycroft began to feel that his brother was abusing this privilege. He understood when Sherlock couldn't sleep, when he broke mother's most expensive vase and panicked, and when he was threatened at school. Those were all matters he willingly advised his brother on. The longer Mycroft was at University, however, the less dire Sherlock's "emergencies" became. He had been in a meeting with a professor when Sherlock had called to ask where he could buy a scalpel. He had done poorly on a quiz because Sherlock kept him up the previous night to discuss all two hundred forty-three types of tobacco ash. His debate group had lost a seemingly simple debate because he had been too preoccupied attempting to communicate the definition of "emergency" to Sherlock to prepare properly.

Mycroft knew that if he wanted to be a successful politician, he would need allies. Friendship was useless, but he needed the loyalty and trust of others, preferable of those with power, to achieve his goal. He sought to only align himself with those for whom he foresaw a bright future in the government. Those with the highest probability of success were given the most of his attention, which was why he was now having a meeting with one David Cameron. This man was going places, and Mycroft hoped to work very closely with him, which meant he could afford no distractions. He had even gone out of his was to call Sherlock that morning.

"But why can't I call you this afternoon?" Sherlock's voice was muffled as the boy continued his experiment while talking.

"I will be in a very important meeting. I really must ask you not to disturb me."

"But what if I need you? You promised!"

Mycroft sighed. "_Please_ just try and stay out of trouble for a few hours. For me."

Sherlock had begrudgingly agreed, and Mycroft had hung up before the boy could change his mind.

The meeting was going well, and drawing to a close. It would appear that Sherlock had, for once, listened to Mycroft's instructions. Then, just as he began to relax, the sound he had been dreading echoed through the room.

Mycroft closed his eyes with a sigh. When he opened them, Cameron had raised an eyebrow, obviously offended.

"Apologies." Mycroft spoke quickly, pulling out his phone. He hesitated. If Sherlock was deliberately sabotaging him just to talk about tobacco ash again, he would strangle the boy. He hadn't had a true emergency in months. Pushing away the twinge of guilt in his gut, he made his decision.

"I must've forgotten to turn it off. Forgive me." Not giving himself time to think twice, he switched the phone off and replaced it in his pocket. What ever it was, he was sure Sherlock was perfectly capable of handling it on his own.

Putting on his most charming smile, he turned back to Cameron.

"You were saying?"

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><p><em>AN: Again, sorry for the delay. I had a tough bit of writer's block. The beginning was easy, and I've already got four of the last chapters done, it's just the middle part that's tricky._

_Thanks again to my unofficial beta, for pushing me through and not letting me post until I'd written something worth the story._

_Please review! They encourage me to work faster!_


	10. Deleted

Sherlock had tried to be good when Mycroft had left, he really had. Mycroft had never looked as sad as when he'd told Sherlock he should be able to take care of himself. He didn't want to see Mycroft like that again; he wasn't supposed to look sad. He was strong, confident, and proud. He was warm and gentle and encouraging. Sometimes he was angry and irritable and gruff, but he was not sad, not Mycroft.

After weeks of attempting to puzzle it out himself, Sherlock gave in and questioned Mummy about it.

"Oh, darling," she had sighed. "Your brother is simply worried about you. He's always been around to fix everything for you. He fears you won't be able to function without him. You threw such a horrible fit before he left, can you blame him for worrying? After all, love, Mycroft won't _always _be around to do everything for you."

Sherlock had been confused by this. "But Mummy, he promised he would be. Why wouldn't he be? It's his job to look after me. He said so!"

Mummy had laughed, the sound echoing like music down the elegant hall. "My love, you take things far too literally. It was his job to protect you when you couldn't protect yourself. Surely you can't expect him to spend his entire life looking after you? He needs to have his own life, and you need to learn to look after yourself, like big boys do. After all, Mycroft didn't have a big brother to watch over him."

Sherlock devoted a great deal of thought to his mother's words. He didn't understand: Mycroft had promised to be there for him, so why did he need to be able to cope with things on his own? He would always have Mycroft, wouldn't he?

He'd always wanted to be like his brother. Mycroft was the smartest person he knew, yet he seemed to glide through life in a way Sherlock couldn't. No one ever taunted him; he even had relationships resembling friendships. People liked Mycroft, which could not be said for the younger Holmes brother. He had assumed that someday Mycroft would teach him how to be that way, but maybe his mother was right. Mycroft had always taken care himself; he hadn't had anyone to teach him or encourage him. Maybe Sherlock needed to be independent as well, so that he could be like Mycroft. That would please his brother, wouldn't it?

So, Sherlock had done his best to take care of himself. He referred to books for answers instead of his brother. He kept his experiments under control, so as not to upset Mummy. He actually did his schoolwork, just to keep himself busy. Most importantly, though, he did not call Mycroft. His brother had given him set times twice a week when he was permitted to call, unless it was an emergency. He stuck to these times faithfully, determined to show both Mycroft and himself that he could be independent.

After a while, however, he could not deny how much he missed his brother's calming influence. He first gave in and called when, after hours of trying, he could not sleep. Listening to Mycroft's deep voice lulling him to sleep was the most peaceful he'd felt in weeks. After that, he couldn't help but search for reasons to talk to his brother. He knew it went against his quest for independence, but he couldn't help it. As Mycroft had said, they were two of a kind. Without his brother around, Sherlock felt incredibly lonely.

On the morning that Mycroft had called him, he had every intention of honoring his brother's wishes. He could surely stay out of trouble for one day. He rarely actually _needed_ Mycroft anymore, anyway. His experiment in independence was paying off, despite the appearance of the opposite. He hadn't seen Mycroft in months, and had successfully avoided any disaster. Of course, the day Sherlock most wished to avoid it would be the day trouble chose to rear its ugly head.

Since the day Mycroft had defended him in the schoolyard, none of his peers had dared to speak unkindly to him. The unspoken threat in the glare of the elder brother lingered in their minds, even after years had passed. With the assurance of his brother's protection, Sherlock had become increasingly confident. He withheld none of his scathing remarks. The fact that Mycroft wasn't present could not be hidden for long, however. Eventually, the other children discovered that Sherlock's protector was no longer around. When they discovered this, they had years of scores to settle.

It had started with jibes and threats at school. He'd called Mycroft, who, naturally, called the school. A few eloquently worded threats by his older brother to the school faculty ensured his protection while on school grounds. Unfortunately, that wasn't the end of it. Sherlock quickly discovered he couldn't leave his house alone. His classmates seemed to be everywhere, and the little buggers travelled in packs. He had avoided them thus far, but confrontation was inevitable.

Mycroft had called on a Tuesday, the day that Sherlock had violin practice in the afternoon. He had made it home with no trouble, only to discover that, to his horror, Mummy had gone out. She would not be there to walk him to practice, and she had taken their driver. He had no money for a cab, and Mummy had dismissed Nanny when he had begun his independence experiment. He would either have to skip his class, or risk facing his classmates alone.

Without hesitation, Sherlock dug out his mobile and dialed his brother's familiar number. Mycroft would be angry with him at first, no doubt, but he would certainly forgive Sherlock when he realized the gravity of the situation. He paced nervously as the phone rang, trying to decide the quickest and simplest way to avoid his brother's anger. He never got the chance, however. Mycroft didn't answer.

Sherlock gaped in shock when the call went to voicemail. He hadn't even considered the possibility of his brother not answering. Until today, it had never _been_ a possibility. Dropping the offending device on the counter, Sherlock collapsed into a nearby chair, trying to understand. Surely Mycroft had simply been unable to reach the phone. He would call back as soon as he realized his mistake. After all, he had _promised_. He would never let his little brother down. Never...and yet the minutes ticked by, and the phone remained silent.

Recovering the device, he dialed again. Perhaps he had dialed the wrong number, or Mycroft simply had not heard. There simply _must_ be an explanation for this abnormality. When the phone did not even ring, however, there was no denying it. Mycroft's phone was off. His brother had both heard and ignored his call.

His brain going into overdrive, Sherlock struggled to find an explanation for the seemingly impossible events occurring. Mycroft had sworn to be there for him, to answer when he called. "Always" his brother had said. _Always_. Now that promise had been broken. Mycroft, suddenly consumed with his politics and his debates and his allies, had forgotten his promise. Mycroft didn't break promises, though, and he certainly didn't forget them. Mycroft never forgot anything he didn't want to forget. Had he _wanted_ to forget? Had his brother _deleted_ the promise? Deleted _him_?

It seemed preposterous, yet Mycroft had told him, "When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how unlikely, must be the truth." His brother had forgotten him. He was alone.

Ignoring the stinging feeling behind his eyes, Sherlock grabbed his violin and walked to practice alone.

The next day, at their usual time, Mycroft rang him for their bi-weekly call. Almost immediately, he asked his younger brother if his call yesterday had been anything urgent.

"No, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered, pressing ice to his bruised and mangled face, "It was nothing."

* * *

><p><em>AN: My beta and I tossed ideas back and forth for days for this one. I knew I wanted to make a continuation of the last chapter, but hadn't actually decided what I wanted Sherlock's call to be about. I was torn between something horribly dramatic (influenced by all of my lovely reviewers) and something more subtle. I hope I managed to find a decent middle ground._

_Reviews are what keep me going, so please keep them coming!_


	11. Normal

_A/N: Very minor spoilers for The Great Game, but I'm assuming that since you're here, you've at least seen season one._

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><p>At the age of twenty, Mycroft had earned his Masters degree in political science. Satisfied with this level of degree, he decided against furthering his education. He graduated at the top of his class, with numerous job offers. Of course he had rejected all of them; they were all worthless, meager positions. He wanted better for himself and would wait until he could have it.<p>

He had intended to purchase a flat in the city while he waited for his opportunity, but his mother had other ideas. She persuaded him to come back to the family estate, if only for the summer. She hoped that having Mycroft around once again would be good for Sherlock.

"It's so horribly upsetting." She told him in one of her rare phone calls.

"He gets so wrapped up in his own mind, I can never make out what he's thinking. He's terribly rude most days. Sometimes he won't even speak at all! And then there's the matter of school. He never says it, but I just know they treat him terribly. The poor darling never has any playmates, and I am forever catching him trying to hide bruises from me. I don't know what to do with him, love. He's not like you; you were such a little angel. I worry about him so."

Mycroft had never know Mummy to be anything but level-headed. Having two genius sons, she had to be. Hearing her so upset over Sherlock's behavior shocked him. It also spoke to him of the severity of Sherlock's conduct.

"I worry about him, too, Mummy." Mycroft answered quietly, before conceding to return home for a few months.

It was strange, being back at home. Everything was at once incredibly familiar and painfully foreign. The house looked more or less the same, but the atmosphere had unquestionably been altered. It was far too quiet. The air had once been filled with Sherlock's endless chatter, his questions and enthusiastic stories. The hallways had echoed with his little brother's laughter and his footsteps as he ran to and fro, getting into all kinds of mischief. Now Sherlock spent most of his time locked away in his room. He read and experimented quietly, mostly ignoring the other occupants of the house.

The chasm that had formed between Mycroft and his brother when he left for University had widened into a gaping canyon in the years he had spent there. It had started with that single missed call. Despite Sherlock's denials, Mycroft had known something was wrong; he wasn't stupid. He had done some investigating and had discovered the truth easily. He had been horrified, of course, and had sought desperately to make up for his blunder. He apologized profusely to Sherlock, renewing his promise and vowing to keep it at all costs this time, but he knew his words did little to repair the trust he had broken. His brother had acknowledged his apologies, but there were no more phone calls. When Sherlock wished to speak to his brother, he preferred to email or text, impersonal methods of communication that Mycroft grew to despise.

After a few weeks of little to no communication with the boy, Mycroft was beginning to give up any hopes of restoring his relationship with Sherlock. Perhaps they were simply too different. After all, he was an adult now. He was concerned with a job, money, and politics: all things Sherlock found dull. Sherlock was still a child, only interested in the petty things that kept his mind occupied. He was not, however, a little boy who needed looking after anymore. Mycroft no longer had the slightest clue how to approach Sherlock.

As the summer progressed, he did begin to see progress. Some mornings, when he paused outside his brother's door, he was permitted to enter. Those were the best days, helping and teaching Sherlock like he had before. Other days, Sherlock ventured from his room, book in hand, and wordlessly settled beside Mycroft, the two brothers reading in silence together. By the time Sherlock had to go back to school, the boy greeted his brother with a smile each morning. Pleased with this progress, Mycroft did not even bring up moving when summer ended, preferring to stay where he could regain his brother's trust.

With Sherlock in school, it was easy to see what had upset Mummy so. His brother came home each day looking worn and weary. Even on the days he didn't sport any bruises, the evidence of verbal and physical mistreatment by his peers was clear to Mycroft. Teachers called the house routinely, to complain about Sherlock disrupting class and disrespecting his elders.

Mycroft couldn't comprehend why this continued. Surely Sherlock was intelligent enough to see that he had the ability to put a stop to all of these things. All he needed to do was keep his thoughts to himself; if he played their game, they would leave him be. If the boy would only do his schoolwork instead of scoffing at it, his brilliance would be recognized. He could be moved up to higher levels, to material that wouldn't bore him so terribly. It was all so simply, really, and yet Sherlock was too stubborn and proud to help himself.

When that dreadful business about Carl Powers began, things only got worse for Sherlock. He became determined to prove that something was amiss with the case, all because of a pair of shoes. While Mycroft applauded his brother's deductive skills, he was also increasingly concerned for Sherlock. The boy was doing everything he could to get the police involved, making a nuisance of himself and irritating people with considerable power. In addition, people in the neighborhood began to believe he was insane, escalating his issues at school. Finally, Mycroft felt he had no choice but to interfere, and he sat Sherlock down to have a talk.

"Why should I leave it alone?" The boy ranted. "You, of all people, know I'm right. I have to be, Mycroft. Something's wrong here, and I just _have_ to figure it out! Don't you understand?"

Mycroft sighed. He could see Sherlock's point, and it was wonderful to see his brother so enthusiastic about something again. He did not believe it worth the trouble it was causing, however.

"_Let it go,_ Sherlock. You're causing far too much of a fuss. The boy drowned. It was a horrible accident, end of story. Someone probably stole his shoes while he was swimming. Totally unrelated."

"We _both_ know that not true! Why are you taking _their_ side?" Sherlock was getting aggravated now, his voice growing louder as he argued.

"It's not a matter of taking sides, brother. You are going to get yourself in trouble, constantly sticking your nose in other people's business. Just because you're clever enough to know things, doesn't mean you have the_ right_ to know them. Sometimes, you have to ignore things. You have to act normal, if only to protect yourself."

Sherlock's mouth gaped in shock. "Normal? Why on earth would I want to be _normal?_ They're so stupid and annoying, you've said so yourself. Why would you act like one of _them?_"

"If you want to fit in, you must-"

"Fit in?" Sherlock interrupted, his voice once again rising in anger. "I don't want to fit in! What do I need to do that for? I don't need those idiots. I'm different, I'm _special! _At least that's what you said before! I would never play _stupid_ just so people will like me."

As the boy stormed from the room, Mycroft dropped his head into his hands. So much for progress. He supposed he should have expected Sherlock to take the suggestion as an insult. His brother was so proud. Mycroft had the best of intentions, yet in Sherlock's eyes, he had once again failed.

* * *

><p><em>AN:It's been a while, but I finally found time. Every now and then I realize I should actually do things like homework and studying._

_Thanks to a semi-productive weekend spent with my beta, (who is now an official beta and who also wrote a Sherlock story because I made her, and has started a chaptered one that is looking very promising. I highly recommend her beta skills and her stories!) gryphon31, I now have a basic layout for the rest of the story. I have 80% of the story written, and the rest I have a general idea for. Unfortunately, I find myself wanting to write later chapters instead of the ones I can actually post. _

_Last chapter broke my record of reviews for a single chapter with 10 reviews. Think you can beat it again this time?_


	12. Mykie

_A:N: Technically, Mycroft isn't in this one, really. It's mostly just Sherlock thinking. The italics are a flashback._

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><p>At fifteen years old, Sherlock Holmes was just as stubborn as he was brilliant. There were many things he knew, but refused to acknowledge because they would prove he had made an error. For example, he knew that if he did his schoolwork, he could skip ahead to subjects that bored him less, yet he refused to lower himself to such simple work. He was aware that if he refrained from mocking his idiotic peers, they would refrain from attempting to beat him to a pulp, yet he could not withhold his scalding remarks. On some level, he even knew that it was highly unlikely that his brother had ever intentionally hurt him. Accepting this idea, however, would mean admitting that he had overreacted, that he had misinterpreted Mycroft's actions repeatedly. He could not bring himself to admit to that.<p>

"I suppose I've got some sort of disorder." He murmured quietly to his skull, sitting across the room on his windowsill. As always, the skull remained silent, grinning unassumingly at its owner.

"Could be mental. Or emotional." He continued. "I could have Asperger's, or maybe I'm a psychopath. No...not psychopath. Even _I'm_ not quite that dreadful. Sociopath, perhaps. I suppose I'll research it later. I rather like the sound of sociopath, though."

When Mummy first heard him speaking to himself, she'd been concerned. He imagined it was rather suspicious: a friendless, precocious teenage boy suddenly speaking to no one but a human skull. After telling her a few times that speaking aloud helped him think, and no, he did not actually think the skull could hear or respond, she learned to accept it as another of her son's many eccentricities. She had even teased him about it, asking if the skull had a name and suggesting "Yorick" with a smirk. Sherlock merely scoffed.

Of course the skull wasn't named "Yorick." That was far too obvious. No, very few would have guessed the skull's actual name, particularly because the boy never actually spoke it aloud. Yet it seemed only right that his "friend" be named after the one who had given it to him, the one whose company it was replacing. His brother had given it to him, a few months into his time at University, before _the call._ The skull's name, only to be acknowledged in Sherlock's mind, was Mykie.

"_That's a real skull." Sherlock pointed out in surprise when his brother set it on the table between them. "A real, **human** skull."_

"_Very observant, brother." Mycroft chuckled. "I'm not sure about you, but I know speaking aloud helps me to think. With me gone, I imagined you could use someone to talk to."_

_Sherlock's fingers trailed reverently over the smooth bone. "Where on earth did you get this?"_

_The sly smile that spread across his brother's face rivaled the wide grin of the skull. "He's a...ah, friend of mine. Look after him for me, would you?"_

Sherlock had looked after the skull, quite meticulously, in fact. Mykie was the only thing in his room that ever received cleaning, besides his violin. As he began to experiment with independence, the skull became his closest companion. He told the inanimate object of his concerns and his struggles, all of the things he wanted to tell his brother. In the days where he was desperate for Mycroft's warm encouragement, he managed to find comfort in the emotionless object.

Plucking at the strings on his violin, Sherlock met the vacant stare of his brother's gift. "We're two of a kind, you and I," he told it. "Two of a kind..."

Were they still two of a kind? He wasn't sure anymore. Sherlock didn't know what he wanted from his brother. For a long time, he had wanted _his_ Mycroft back, the one that smiled at him and encouraged him and was always there for him. Now he wasn't so sure. He wasn't a child anymore, after all. He hardly needed Mycroft to coddle him any longer. So why did he feel like the distant and individualistic relationship they had now wasn't enough either?

It seemed there could be no middle ground between them. Sherlock was always either unhealthily dependent on his brother, or refused to have anything to do with him. There was no in-between for Sherlock. Either Mycroft was everything Sherlock needed, or he would be nothing to the boy. He paused to ponder: was this really the way to live? If he couldn't have the fond and caring brother from before, was his only alternative truly a cold, empty one?

Perhaps he simply desired a father figure? After all, he hadn't had his father for years. Sherlock scoffed. His father had never been a father figure; he had been more of a disappointment then Mycroft. Mycroft, his true paternal figure, had also been a disappointment. Why should he _need_ Mycroft, when to do so was to open himself up to betrayal and broken promises. It was foolish to need someone who could not be what you needed.

"We aren't really the same," He announced decisively to Mykie, "Not anymore. You got so much older, so _boring, _with your dull politics and your annoying responsibilities. We are nothing alike, now, and I don't need you anymore." Though his voice was strong and certain, Sherlock wasn't sure if he was trying to convince Mycroft or himself. He desperately wanted to believe that he didn't need his brother anymore, and that Mycroft would never disappoint him again; but he could not squash the final bit of hope and longing that remained in his chest. It mattered little, though. Mycroft couldn't hear him, and the skull's expression didn't change.

"At least you did teach me one thing, brother." Sherlock returned his violin to its case as he spoke, preparing to leave for school. "You taught me that no one will ever really be there for me. I will always be on my own. Thank you ever so much for the lesson."

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><p><em>AN: Please review! Don't make me beg!_


	13. Teddy Bear

Mummy had been mortified by the number of job offers Mycroft had turned down, but he knew what he was waiting for. Within a year of his graduation, Mycroft's patience paid off. He accepted the job he desired, a position in the British government. It was a minor one, but Mycroft knew an opportunity when he saw it. His minor government position would not remain minor for long. Only three years into his employment and he was moving upwards, slowly working his way deeper and deeper into the heart of the government. Already, he had near complete control of a few people and positions, and if he continued on his current trajectory, he predicted it would be only a few more years before he had more power than most people could comprehend.

Mycroft found his work deeply satisfying. Few could do what he did, and his superiors knew it. He could read it in the way they praised his work, the way they met his every request: they needed him. Their need was a soothing balm on the ache that was his relationship with his brother. For years, it seemed that no matter how he tried, he only disappointed Sherlock, and his brother's coldness cut him deeper than he wished to acknowledge. Mycroft was a brilliant man, and was not without his vanities. He had grown up relishing his brother's adoration and need for his support, and had selfishly sought to prolong them as long as possible. The loss of them had left him hollow, searching desperately for a substitute. He had thrown himself into his work and, when he avoided giving it too much thought, it was enough to keep him content.

Though he moved to the city not long after the Carl Powers incident, Mycroft returned home once a month for a family dinner. He did this partly at Mummy's insistence, but mostly to see Sherlock. He held onto a small portion of hope that his brother still held some affection for him. He could not help but believe that as long as he remained a permanent fixture in the boy's life, there was a chance for reconciliation between them. Perhaps it was selfish of him; perhaps Sherlock was better off finding his way alone, but Mycroft found himself helpless to quell the desire for the closeness they used to share.

Dinner had been an uneventful affair, as always. Mummy had asked about his work, and he had replied politely, but also vaguely. There was little to say as most of his work was shrouded in secrecy. Sherlock merely sulked at the table, occasionally chiming in to inform them that they were boring or to tell Mycroft that he was getting fat. Mummy had given up attempting to chastise him, just as Mycroft had given up trying to have a civil conversation with him.

Dinner had long since ended, and Mummy had retired to her room for the night, Sherlock wordlessly stalking upstairs shortly after. Normally this was his cue to leave, but tonight Mycroft lingered. He stood out on the balcony, watching as night settled over the extensive grounds of his childhood home. He had not been outside long when the glass door quietly slid open, and Sherlock joined him, hands clasped behind his back.

Mycroft took a moment to observe his brother. Sometimes, when he looked at Sherlock, he still expected to see a little boy with curious eyes and dirty trousers. He was often startled to see an elegant young man instead. Seventeen years old, Sherlock was now nearly as tall as him. He had grown neatly into his lanky limbs, so that he no longer seemed to be an awkward tangle of arms and legs. His eager and excited face had smoothed into a calm and distant mask, allowing him to hide behind his dramatic features and piercing eyes.

Seeking to break the silence, Mycroft softly commented, "The stars are quite lovely tonight, aren't they, brother?"

Sherlock scoffed. "What's so lovely about burning balls of gas millions of miles away? Dull."

"What they are has little effect on their aesthetic quality, Sherlock." Mycroft answered, keeping his voice gentle. He allowed himself a small smile as he watched his brother stare at the sky. Sherlock's face softened slightly, as he allowed himself to appreciate the view. His eyes quickly darted back to his older brother, however, and the moment was lost. Sherlock's face returned to its coolly indifferent countenance.

Stepping forward, the teenager moved his arm from behind his back, extending it towards his brother. "Here," He said emotionlessly, "I don't need this anymore."

Looking down, Mycroft was surprised to see the familiar object in his brother's hand. It was an old, ragged teddy bear, the one he had given Sherlock all those years ago to help him sleep. Slowly taking it, Mycroft raised his questioning glance to his brother's face.

"Have you really been sleeping with it this long?" He asked, astonished. Sherlock had been able to get his sleep troubles somewhat under control years ago. Mycroft had assumed his brother had gotten rid of the toy by now, if not simply stored it away and forgotten it.

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped. "Don't be ridiculous, Mycroft."

Mycroft nodded in apology, ignoring the sting of Sherlock's verbal attack. "Why are you giving it back now, then?" Mycroft's voice remained soft, unsure of what Sherlock's intentions were.

"Because I don't need it anymore." Sherlock repeated slowly, as if he were speaking to an imbecile.

While he said nothing else, Mycroft could hear another sentence in his brother's sharp tone; could see it in the cold eyes fixed on him. Sherlock's true words, while unspoken, hung in the air. _I don't need **you** anymore._

A tidal wave of emotion engulfed the elder brother. Sherlock had seen the hope in his brother's heart, and with this one small action, had dashed it to pieces. His breath coming out in a silent gasp, Mycroft forced back the embarrassing wetness prickling behind his eyes and ignored the horrified churning in his gut. He had always mocked the people who claimed a loved one had ripped their heart out, yet the physical ache in his chest at his brother's rejection was undeniable.

Mycroft was struck by a maelstrom of conflicting desires. He wanted to yell at his brother, to shake sense into him and scream in frustration. _Stop this! Stop pushing me away! All I want is to help you, to care about you! Why won't you let me?_ He wanted to weep, to beg forgiveness for every perceived wrong and vow to regain his brother's trust. _I only ever wanted you to be happy. Where did I go wrong? Please tell me so I can fix it. _He wanted to wrap his brother in his arms and shield him from the world. _You don't have to be alone. You were never alone. I'm here. I'll always be here. We need each other, can't you see?_

His pride prevented these reactions. They would not sway his brother anyway. The boy was just as stubborn as he. Instead, he collected himself. He thrust his chin upwards and fiddled with his umbrella, attempting to disguise the painful emotions coursing through him.

"Of course," He replied in the same mild tone as before. "How silly of me. Thank you, Sherlock." Turning in his heel, he marched away, forcing down the lump in his throat.

By the time he got outside, a sleek black car was waiting. Sliding into the leather backseat, he sighed. His assistant looked at him questioningly as he hunched forward and hung his head, staring desolately at the stuffed animal clutched in his hands.

"Are you alright, sir?" She asked hesitantly as the car pulled away from the Holmes mansion.

Depositing the teddy bear gently on the seat beside him, Mycroft made a noncommittal sound and stared blankly out the window. Sherlock's message had been clear: he was through with his brother. He wanted Mycroft to stop trying to reconcile. Sherlock wanted him out of his life. Mycroft saw no option other than to do as he wanted and give his brother the space he desired. That did not mean, however, that he had to give up on his brother completely. Turning back to his confused assistant, he informed her that he needed her to set up surveillance on someone for him.

"Who, sir?" She questioned him, already preparing to make the call.

"Sherlock Holmes."

His assistant paused in her dialing to stare at him inquisitively. "Your brother, sir?"

Mycroft sent her a sharp look, reminding her wordlessly that it was not her duty to ask questions. She quickly returned to her phone. As her voice filled the car, setting his orders in motion, Mycroft glanced once more at the toy beside him and allowed another sigh to escape. He had told Sherlock he would be there, even when his younger brother didn't want him to be. He would do everything in his power to keep that promise.

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><p><em>AN: Once again, sorry for the delay. Been pretty busy. Also, I'm sort of attempting to prolong this, since I now only have 7 chapters left to post, 5 of which are already written. I don't know what I'll do with myself when I finish this._

_I also wrote a oneshot centering around Mycroft and his feelings about his interaction with Moriarty, if anyone is interested. Be warned, it's a bit darker than this._

_Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope it's up to par. I've got over 70 reviews now, which I am so grateful for! Please keep reviewing! Think we can make it to 100 reviews before the last chapter?_


	14. Observing

_A/N: Once again, sorry for the delay. Classes have been tough, and I recently got into Doctor Who, which has taken up most of my free time. _

_Anyway, here's the next chapter. It's a bit different from my usual chapters, just snippets of Mycroft watching over Sherlock as the years pass, with a bit of protective Mycroft thrown in at the end for those of you who have been asking for it._

_**Disclaimer****:** Haven't included one in a while, so I thought I'd just remind you all that I own nothing._

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><p>After Sherlock made it clear that he wanted nothing to do with his brother, the Holmes brothers did not see each other for a number of years. Mycroft, wanting to honor his brother's wishes, made no attempt to contact Sherlock. He could not, however, bring himself to fully abandon him. It had been relatively easy to set up surveillance on Sherlock, and Mycroft was almost disappointed with how long it took his brother to discover the cameras. Each day he checked the tapes at least once, yet the measure meant to ease his worry seemed to only amplify it. Sherlock appeared so alone, so discontent, and it cut Mycroft to the core.<p>

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><p>Sherlock's room was dark, the fading light of dusk filling the room. As the light faded, Mycroft grew exceedingly grateful that he had been given the best cameras available, so that he could still make out the hollow expression on his brother's face. Sherlock was dressed for bed, but it was clear that sleep would not come easy for the young Holmes tonight. He sat in the middle of his bed, knees tucked up to his chest, listless eyes staring out the window.<p>

The sight reawakened the ache deep in Mycroft's chest, his brother's posture reminding him of a night so very long ago. In spite of the years that had passed, the young man on the bed seemed no different to Mycroft than the lost little boy who had come to him for help in the dead of the night; the one who had gazed up at him with a tortured face and pleading eyes, desperate for relief from his own racing thoughts.

Mycroft knew the feeling well. How many nights had he sat awake, begging his mind to give him just a moment of peace? Few could understand the agony of a brilliant but unoccupied mind. It was like a magnificent sports car on an empty race track: speeding in circles with no purpose, slowly driving itself insane. It was a curse that Mycroft had fought his entire life to keep at bay, and one that he had fought to keep his brother from suffering through. He had taught Sherlock all that he could, and until now, Sherlock had turned to him, rather than let his mind consume him. Even now, Sherlock's pale fingers reached for the phone, before he caught himself with a scowl. Now, Sherlock's pride kept him from seeking his brother's assistance. Now, he sat alone and let the darkness envelop him.

Feeling that same darkness pulling at his own mind, Mycroft turned from the screen. He fought his demons throughout the night, throwing his mind into his work. Only when the sun began to rise did he allow himself to check on his brother again. Sherlock had not moved. The weak light of the dawn cast shadows on his haggard face, illuminating his ravaged room, his pallid skin, and his desolate eyes.

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><p>"I can't believe you! Are you even <em>human?"<em>

The stupid, ignorant man, whose name Mycroft could not be bothered to store in his hard drive, raged through the flat, searching for any of his possessions hidden among the mess that inevitably overtook any space Sherlock occupied.

"Of course you're not. No human being can be this messed up!"

Sherlock stood out of the other man's way. He was wrapped up in his coat and scarf, the bag of fresh tongues he had just acquired still clutched in his hand. His face had been carefully schooled into indifference as his flatmate ranted, but Mycroft, pained to see the sorrow lurking behind his brother's mask, was unsure how long he could keep up the facade.

Mycroft was getting frustrated. This was Sherlock's fifth flatmate in the two years he had been living alone. After the second one had left, the elder Holmes had begun screening them personally, looking for the calmest, most accepting and understanding people he could find. Sherlock shouldn't be alone; he needed to have someone to understand him. Because Sherlock no longer allowed him to fill that position, Mycroft scoured the masses of the city for someone to look after his brother in his place. Yet despite his best efforts, even the most patient men in London could not seem to deal with Sherlock's eccentricities. No matter how Mycroft tried, no matter how he fought it, his little brother always ended up alone.

"Well I'm through with it. Good luck getting the rent, 'cause I'm not living with a freak like you!"

Mycroft flinched at the use of the work "freak." It was a word used far too often against the Holmes brothers, a word he had grown to deeply despise. They were not freaks, he and Sherlock. They were different, certainly. If anything, however, they were brilliant, extraordinary, even superior. The human tendency to attempt to crush anything unique was one that irritated Mycroft to no end. He, with his position of power and authoritative presence, rarely dealt with such annoyances anymore, but Sherlock did. Still unwilling to even fake social graces, Mycroft's brother was ridiculed and scorned by any he could have otherwise called a colleague or friend. It pained the elder sibling, seeing Sherlock so alone, but there was little he could do. He tried to surround Sherlock with those most likely to accept him, but the man always found some way to push them away.

As the door to the flat slammed shut, Sherlock's mask crumbled, and he visibly deflated. His violin was snatched from its position on the sofa, and music filled the flat. Clearly an original piece, Mycroft could not help but wince at the aching loneliness that filled each note.

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><p>Mycroft, suffering from a painful lack of crises to solve, casually pulled up Sherlock's surveillance camera feed. He smiled fondly at the image of his brother, ransacking his own flat, clearly on a mission. Books, papers, and assorted knick-knacks flew through the air, collateral damage in Sherlock's quest.<p>

Observing his brother's manic behavior, Mycroft's amusement quickly faded. How long had it been since Sherlock last slept? He seemed almost delirious in his frenzy. His eyes darted around the flat, his movements almost sluggish with weariness. He had witnessed many of Sherlock's sleepless nights, but he had assumed the man's body eventually demanded the rest it needed.

Mycroft's musings were quickly halted when Sherlock's searching eyes finally came to a stop, appearing to meet his through the camera. A mirthless smirk spread across the younger man's face as he dashed across the room, knocked a few books aside, and ripped the miniscule camera from its hiding place.

Fire burned in Sherlock's eyes as he stared into the device. His smirk faded, replaced by a snarl. "Thought you were clever, did you Mycroft? Here I thought you'd decided to be the better man. Thought maybe you'd finally left me in peace, but you couldn't resist, could you? You just couldn't stand the thought of something being beyond your control. I've told you, _brother_, I don't need you. Go play your power games with someone else."

The feed cut out with a crackle. With a sigh, Mycroft rolled his eyes at his brother's dramatics. Power games? Surely Sherlock was intelligent enough to see that if he were attempting to control his brother because of some power complex, he would be doing much less watching and much more manipulating. Honestly, it was as if Sherlock was searching for reasons to be angry at him, and inventing them when he could find none. He felt he hardly deserved such resentment, but he had long since learned to steel himself against it. The venom behind his brother's words could no longer reach his heart through the barrier of ice he had surrounded it with. He had vowed to look after Sherlock, even against his brother's will. He knew doing so would not earn him much favor with his sibling, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make. It mattered little if Sherlock hated him, as long as he was safe.

With a few typed commands, Mycroft accessed the secondary surveillance system, deciding to make sure Sherlock slept tonight, even if he had to send a sniper with a sedative. Perhaps that was more manipulation than observation, but he was watching Sherlock to ensure his well being, after all. When Sherlock's flat flickered back into view, however, Mycroft was frozen in shock. Sherlock was no longer raging in his flat, but was locked in hand to hand combat with an intruder.

As the masked man landed a hard punch against his brother's face, Mycroft sprang into action. His eyes remained glued to the screen as he calmly ordered a security unit to Sherlock's flat, ensuring none of his fear and desperation leak into his voice. He could not show weakness, not in front of anyone, no matter how his heart was racing.

The security team was on their way, and Sherlock seemed to be holding his own. Mycroft forced himself to take in deep lung-fulls of air and slowly forced the muscles of his hands to relax out of tight fists. Sherlock would be safe. He repeated this mantra to himself, just beginning to believe it when the intruder sudden managed to stab some sort of syringe into his brother's neck. Mycroft's mouth fell open in a wordless cry as, disoriented, Sherlock swayed, falling forward into the intruder's waiting arms.

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><p>It wasn't until the trespasser had been apprehended and transported to his facilities, and Sherlock had been taken to the hospital that Mycroft was able to breathe properly again. The cold hands of fear that had clutched his chest at the sight of Sherlock's prone form being dragged down the stairs had finally released him, and his heart had stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest.<p>

He didn't go to his brother; it would do neither of them any good. Sherlock had made it abundantly clear that Mycroft was still unwelcome in his life. He had been reliably informed that Sherlock had only sustained minor injuries, and the drug he had been given had been only a mild sedative. Mycroft allowed his worry to slip away and be replaced by the fury of a protective brother. Sherlock would recover with no difficulty. The intruder would not be so lucky.

Easily able to judge that the trespasser had been acting out of orders, rather than alone, Mycroft elected to interrogate him personally. It was imperative that whoever was behind this was dealt with, as Mycroft did not think he could bear witnessing another attack on Sherlock. It made his calm and controlled facade far too weak. While his men were good at what they did, he required personal assurance of his brother's future safety.

He fought to control his temper as he circled the chained man, who was had the gall to evade his questions. It mattered little, however, if simple words would not do. His men had many methods of extracting information. He preferred not to get his hands dirty, but he would allow it if this man's irritating refusal to speak did not cease.

After two hours of unsuccessful interrogation, Mycroft could no longer contain his anger. This man was wasting his time. Every moment this imbecile withheld information was a moment that the true culprit could use to harm Sherlock further. His brother had been lucky this time, but he would not be truly safe until this insignificant little man talked.

"You are wearing my patience thin. A grave mistake, I assure you. I am the gentlest form of interrogation you will see here, so I suggest you answer me. Now."

Mycroft spoke darkly, allowing his hatred for this worthless, nameless man to bleed into his words and lace with countless unspoken threats. "So tell me: _who sent you, and what did they want with him?"_

For the briefest of moments, the man had the good sense to look frightened. Then that wretched smirk reappeared.

"I thought you were supposed to be so clever. They didn't want him, they wanted you. Wanted your secrets, we've heard you've got quite a few. He was just bait, just a way to get to you. If you ask me though, I think it's an awful waste of such a pretty face. I can think of plenty of better uses for him." The man finished with a lewd wink.

Mycroft's mouth contorted into a snarl, his hands clenching into fists, as white hot rage overtook his body.

* * *

><p>Mycroft exited the interrogation room some time later, his knuckles bruised and stained red with blood that was not his own. Quickly suppressing the shaking of his body, he turned to face his men, who awaited his next orders.<p>

"He's in your hands now. Do what you must, and do it quickly. I want this dealt with." He stated simply.

The security team all eyed his bloodied hands questioningly. It was rare for Mycroft to interrogate a prisoner, but it was unheard of for him to use violence. The running joke among Mycroft's employees was that the cold-hearted man wouldn't lift a finger to save his own mother, yet it was clear that the prisoner had taken quite a beating at their master's hands. The men were baffled. One spoke up, "Didn't you get anything out of him, sir?"

"Obviously not, Jones." Mycroft snapped in return. "Get to work." Of course he hadn't gotten any answers. He'd stopped asking questions as soon as the man had dared to make such a horrifying comment.

Not waiting to see his orders obeyed, Mycroft turned swiftly to return to his office. He fought down the shame at his loss of control. It had been years since he had used physical force against someone. He was no longer a teenage boy, striking the child who was bold enough to lay a finger on Sherlock. He was a grown man now; this behavior was no longer acceptable. He was meant to be in control, to use his wit and his words to defend his brother instead. Glancing down at his bloodied knuckles, however, Mycroft found he could not squash an ounce of the satisfaction he felt.

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><p><em>AN: I've said before that this fic is named after the song "Permanent" by David Cook, but I thought I'd include the link to the youtube fan-made video to the song that initially got me into the Holmes brothers' relationship and, essentially, inspired this fic. Just remove the spaces._

_http:/ www. youtube. com/ watch?v= YvbFc1t9hew_

_Thanks for reading! Please review! (Can't help but notice that a few of my regular reviewers seem to have disappeared. Come back! I miss you!)_


	15. Overdose

_A/N: Finally got around to finishing this chapter. I started it a few days after posting the last one, but it refused to cooperate. Ended up writing it backwards, if that makes any sense. _

_Anyway, mentions of drug use and overdose, so beware._

_ Also, a guest appearance by Lestrade! He may seem a bit OOC, but keep in mind that he is about six years younger and hasn't dealt with a Holmes before._

_I've only got one more chapter to write, and then I promise I will update more regularly, since the last few chapters are written anyway._

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><p>Watching Sherlock being kidnapped shook Mycroft more than he cared to admit to anyone, even himself. While it had worked out well enough this time, the mere idea that anyone would attack Sherlock simply because of Mycroft's position of influence horrified the older brother. He decided he would have to use the situation to send a message; he would not allow this to happen again.<p>

It had taken Mycroft's men less than fifteen minutes to extract the information needed from the kidnapper; they were quite creative when the situation demanded it. After that, it had been almost painfully easy to find the imbecile responsible and deal with him accordingly. The media declared the man's unique death a tragic incident and hung a plaque in memory. That plaque stood as a warning to any who dared to use Mycroft's brother against him.

After the kidnapping incident, Mycroft kept an even closer watch on Sherlock. While he was fairly confident his "message" was clear and would be enough to ward off any other plotters, he still found himself in constant need of an assurance of his brother's well-being. Unfortunately, the assurance he sought was the opposite of what he got.

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><p>It had been an average day for Mycroft. He was four solved crises into the day, and it wasn't even noon. He'd worked through the night, but he'd slept two days ago, so he would manage for another day or so. He hadn't bothered with food today either; his assistant had forced him to eat an entire meal yesterday, and there simply wasn't time for such nonsense.<p>

Glancing at the ever-present security footage of his brother, Mycroft frowned. Sherlock's habits were disconcerting: days, sometimes even weeks, with little to no sleep or food. It was a miracle his body continued to function. Granted, these were habits Mycroft himself had; he could sympathize entirely. It was often simpler to avoid sleep rather than try to force his body to cooperate, and eating was a waste of time when there were more important things.

The difference between the brothers, however, was that Mycroft had a purpose. He had a job to occupy his mind and challenge him. Sherlock had nothing. Sherlock was drifting, working in shops for a few days at a time, only when the money Mycroft placed in his account each week wasn't enough to pay his rent and fund his experiments. He bounced from flat to flat and job to job, unable to find a place where he could both tolerate and be tolerated by those around him. He was bored, and Mycroft feared that the boredom was a greater danger to him than anything else.

From the look of it, Sherlock had just returned from a day of wandering. It was something he often did when unemployed and out of materials to experiment with, something he and Mycroft had done as children. When they could find nothing to do, they would wander the streets of London, competing to see who could deduce most about the people they saw. It was a game that Sherlock had loved, though, much to his chagrin, Mycroft had always won.

Mycroft had always been better at reading people. Their motives spoke more clearly to him than to his brother, most likely because he was fascinated by them. It was because of this that the elder brother held a position of importance, while Sherlock could not hold a job at all. Mycroft viewed the world with interest, like a god pleased to observe his obedient subjects. Sherlock blundered through the world, worn down by it because he found it all so terribly dull. He found no wonder in a world he viewed as worthless; he saw no challenge in it. His mind, his sharpest and most valuable weapon, was without a rival and turned on itself instead.

Mycroft knew all of this, knew his brother's pain and his weakness, yet he still did not expect what came next. He somehow had overlooked the possibility that Sherlock, with nothing to occupy his mind and no one to turn to, would turn to a more dangerous alternative. He, with all his skills of observation, had not seen this coming, and now he was frozen in horror, watching his brother prepare the seven percent solution to his problems.

As Sherlock plunged the needle into his pale skin, an agonized sound filled the air. The sound, wretched and pained, was foreign to Mycroft's ears. He glanced around his office in confusion, before realizing the sound had come from his own throat. There would be no turning back now. He knew his brother. Sherlock had an addictive personality. He craved something to rely on. He had lost that in Mycroft years ago, and had been seeking a replacement ever since. Sherlock had found alcohol too sloppy, and cigarettes not powerful enough, but cocaine would not let him down. Cocaine would always be there to dull his mind, to offer him the peace his brother never could. It would also be there to kill him, to cause a physical deterioration that his brain was incapable of. To calm his mind, Sherlock would destroy his body.

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><p>It didn't get easier with time, watching Sherlock take the drugs. Each time, Mycroft sat, paralyzed and unable to look away while his brother poisoned himself. Sherlock's already lanky frame became gaunt as his allotted food money was spent on cocaine instead. His clothes became ragged and his possessions were pawned off as he worked to sustain his horrible addiction. Mycroft soon had to send Sherlock's rent check personally, to ensure it wasn't squandered before reaching the landlord. As he was forced to provide more and more money each month, Mycroft grew increasingly conflicted. Continuing to financially support his brother meant enabling his drug use, yet withdrawing his funding would undoubtedly leave Sherlock homeless. He would not do that to his brother. Safe in a comfortable flat, with enough money to at least get high quality cocaine, there was hope for Sherlock; on the streets, he would surely perish.<p>

When the initial horror and guilt at Sherlock's actions had worn off, frustration and anger had settled in their place. Observing as his brother became nothing more than an addict made Mycroft feel more helpless than he ever had before, and he was not a man who enjoyed helplessness. He could not contain the personal insult and fury he felt at the sight of his brother destroying his mind, his greatest treasure. Mycroft would have moved mountains and toppled governments to make his brother stop this, but he knew it would do no good. Sherlock was not only impossibly stubborn, he was determined to disregard anything his brother told him. No matter what Mycroft said or did, Sherlock would not see reason if it came from his brother's lips. And so Mycroft was left immobile, knowing that any action he took would most likely only make Sherlock worse. With no action as an outlet, his fear and pain and anger were building up, poisoning him from within. Watching his brother destroy himself was destroying Mycroft as well.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Mycroft sighed as he scrubbed a hand across his face. He desperately needed to focus. He'd nearly caused three international crises this morning while thinking about Sherlock; he could not afford to be this distracted. He worried constantly, and it was beginning to adversely affect his work, the one thing that kept him sane. He knew that, logically, there was no point in worrying. He'd decided there was nothing he could do for his brother at this point, yet this knowledge made it no easier to watch Sherlock slowly destroy himself.

He was even more on edge today, as he had no surveillance. Sherlock had found the last of his cameras, and his men had no choice but to wait until he left the flat to bug it again. Mycroft would not risk adding a sedative to the other toxic chemicals coursing through his brother's veins these days. Sherlock must have guessed this, and was stubbornly refusing to leave. It had been thirty-two hours since Mycroft had visual confirmation that his brother was still functioning, and he wasn't sure how much longer he would stand it. Sherlock could be doing anything, could be in any state, and he would never know. He was a man used to knowing; nothing was kept from him. This uncertainty burnt in his gut, churning along with worry and anger to leave him in a perpetual state of physical and mental distress.

Just as he was considering actually taking a lunch break today, and using it to pay a visit to his dear brother, his assistant entered. Normally an admirably calm young woman, she appeared troubled as she informed him that there was an Inspector Lestrade for him on line two. Mycroft raised an eyebrow as she practically scurried from his office. Normally she handled his calls with ease, particularly those from people as blatantly unimportant to his work as an Inspector. Trouble, then. This brave woman, who had stood at his side and faced assassins and terrorists without blinking, had seemed to fear his reaction. Trouble that was out of the ordinary, obviously. Mycroft felt the blood drain from his face. It could only be Sherlock.

The elder brother braced himself against the images his mind supplied for him. Sherlock, curled up in a cold, dark, jail cell; arrested for drug possession. Sherlock, bruised and starving in a crack house. Sherlock, laying in a pool of blood; killed in a drug deal gone wrong. A thousand aspects of Sherlock's wretched life to go wrong, and Mycroft helpless to stop any of them.

Mycroft slumped into his chair, desperately trying to reign in his shuddering breaths. Forcing his racing thoughts back into line and ignoring his pounding heart, he snatched up his phone with a shaking hand, calming his voice into a mask of lazy indifference.

"What's he done now?"

For a moment, there was silence on the other end of the line. Then a male voice, obviously shocked, spoke. "Erm...am I speaking to Mycroft Holmes?"

"Yes, obviously." Mycroft answered, his impatience leaking into his voice. "I'm a busy man, Inspector, and I rarely get calls from men such as yourself, so I can only assume it has to do with my brother. So tell me, what has he done?" The politician clenched his free hand, fighting to keep his fear and anxiety out of his voice.

There was another pause, and Mycroft shifted irritably, biting his tongue to keep from snapping in impatience. He didn't have time for this man's hesitation. Not when Sherlock was undoubtedly in some sort of danger.

"Right. I'm very sorry, Mr. Holmes, but your brother is in the hospital. Drug overdose. They're saying it was cocaine. I was one of the officers who-"

Mycroft hung up. He didn't care for the details. It didn't matter how Sherlock was found, where he was, or who found him. That was all meaningless. All that mattered was that he was alive, and remained so. Rising slowly, Mycroft moved across the room as if in a daze. He shrugged on a jacket mechanically and left his office. As he wordlessly exited the building, his chest was aching, his heart was racing, and his mind was frozen. The car was, as always, waiting for him. He could feel the driver's quizzical stare as he slid into the familiar leather interior, but the man held his tongue. As the car pulled away from the curb and headed towards the hospital, Mycroft was immensely grateful for that. He wasn't sure how long he could keep his cracked facade in place.

* * *

><p>It took every ounce of Mycroft's self-restraint to keep from dashing into the hospital and demanding to be taken to his brother at once. As it was, he forced himself to calmly approach the reception desk, and politely ask for directions. Still, he could not prevent a quickened stride as he approached Sherlock's room. Standing outside it, he gazed in at his brother's prone form. Sherlock's inert body seemed so out of place, his pale skin appearing even more pallid in the stark white room. That wretched agonized sound once again tore itself from Mycroft's throat, filling the silent air around him.<p>

Alive. Sherlock was alive. He was terribly weak and pale, but he would survive. He would recover, and live to torment his brother another day. Relief washed over Mycroft, and he sighed deeply, his weary body sagging against the plain, barren wall.

Someone cleared their throat behind him. "Mr. Holmes?"

Straightening sharply, Mycroft turned to find a prematurely greying man with the rumpled clothes of a workaholic, the shoes of a police officer, the tie of a football fan, and the left hand of a man in an unhappy marriage. Blinking to clear his head of these details, he answered simply.

"Yes."

The man stepped beside Mycroft, hands shoved into his pockets, and nodded towards the door. "You can go in, you know. His condition is stable now. Nurse said he can have visitors."

"No, it's best that I don't. If he knows I'm here, he may still die, if only to spite me." Mycroft replied with a rueful smile. "He's always been so dramatic."

The police officer beside him sorted. Mycroft frowned at him, wondering why he had remained here, why he seemed to care about Sherlock at all.

"I'm Lestrade, by the way." The man offered casually. "Inspector Lestrade."

"I know." Mycroft answered ominously. After looking up Sherlock's condition in the car, he had done a full background check on the officer who had called him, mostly to keep himself occupied. The man was dedicated to his job, though not particularly important or clever. Still, Mycroft owed this man his brother's life.

If Lestrade was intimidated, he gave no indication of it, but continued speaking. "It was incredible, what your brother did. Stumbled across our crime scene, high as a kite, and started ranting all this rubbish about the killer before he passed out. We all thought he was off his rocker, but he was right. About all of it. Couldn't believe it. Would've taken our boys weeks to work that out, and he did it in minutes."

Mycroft nodded, his hand lightly touching the glass separating him from his brother. "Oh, yes. His mind is truly a wondrous thing. And yet here he is, wasting it away." His hand dropped abruptly from the glass as an idea formed in his head, and he turned sharply to face the officer at his side.

"Would you consider employing him, Inspector?" He asked quickly, thoughts racing as a plan developed.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Well I couldn't, could I? He'd have to go through police training..."

Mycroft waved away his objections. "Not as a police officer, that would be far too dull for him."

"Oi!" Lestrade exclaimed. "Wait just a minute!"

Ignoring Lestrade's protests, Mycroft continued. "Too much paperwork, simple brute force. It's his mind that needs occupying, not his body. He needs puzzles. He could consult for you. Would you allow that?"

Lestrade seemed hesitant. "I don't think that's allowed. I can't risk my job just 'cause your brother gets off on crimes. Just buy him a sudoku book."

Sighing in irritation, Mycroft persisted. "It wouldn't be every case, simply the difficult ones. You needn't even pay him, I already arrange his income. You said it would have taken your men weeks to solve the case that Sherlock solved in minutes today. If your killer was attacking one victim a week, then wouldn't you say that my brother has saved more than one life today, Inspector? Is that not reason enough to risk your job?"

This time Lestrade seemed to truly consider Mycroft's words. His brow furrowed as he weighed his options and considered the man making such a suggestion.

"Is that what you care about, Mr. Holmes?" Lestrade asked quietly. "Saving lives?"

"No." Mycroft answered honestly. "But I care about saving _his_ life." He gestured to his motionless brother.

His eyes following his companion's gesture, Lestrade's face softened. Silence reigned as he returned to his deliberations. Finally, he turned back to the taller man, regret clear on his face.

"I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, I just can't. Your brother is brilliant, and I'm sure he could do a load of good, but he's still a junkie. It's just too much of a liability; who knows what he would do if we gave him access to crime scenes."

"And if he were clean?" Mycroft responded quickly, refusing to give up the hope he had discovered.

Lestrade hesitated once again. "I would consider it, yeah." He answered slowly.

It was not a definite answer, but it was enough. Mycroft was filled with purpose, finally able to see a way to save Sherlock. He had stood idly by and let his brother destroy himself for far too long. That ended now. Sherlock would not be pleased at all, but he would get healthy. Mycroft would make sure of it.

* * *

><p><em>If you like this story, feel free to check out my two Sherlock oneshots! (Shameless self promotion? Me? Nooo...)<em>

_Please review!_


	16. Detox

Sherlock fought the urge to fidget against the cool black leather of the sleek car. The only sound was Mycroft's assistant, tapping rapidly on her phone. She was undoubtedly reporting everything she saw to his brother, so Sherlock forced himself to sit still and turned his gaze to the window to observe London as it flew by. Two months. It had been two whole months since he had laid eyes on this city. Despite the logic of it, it seemed to strange that while Sherlock was fighting through his own personal hell, the city had continued turning without him.

Focusing intently on his surroundings, Sherlock struggled to deduce where he was being taken. It wasn't as if he had anywhere to go. Mycroft had made sure of that when the bastard had _abducted _him from the hospital.

* * *

><p><strong>Two Months Earlier<strong>

Sherlock bit back a groan as he fought his way back into consciousness. White walls, stiff sheets, wretchedly annoying beeping near his head. He was obviously in a hospital. Judging by the sweat on his brow and the pain in his stomach, he had overdosed. Sherlock sighed. It had been inevitable, obviously. Even he was bound to miscalculate, to uncaringly take more than he could handle. It wasn't much of a shock to him. He didn't have a death wish particularly, but the knowledge that he's nearly killed himself brought no revelation. Death was the logical conclusion to life, and it seemed there was no sense in putting it off. Nevertheless, he had survived this time, and this would not be enjoyable.

As irrational as it was, Sherlock hated hospitals. It wasn't the result of some childhood trauma or any other ridiculously dramatic idea, it was simply the nature of a hospital the irritated him. They were so stark and pristine. Filled with the sick and dying, they reeked of cleaning equipment. Everything was perfectly organized and immaculately filed. The patients retched and moaned while the workers bustled about with sickeningly false cheeriness. Everything about these places was contrary to Sherlock. He was a creature of chaos, he thrived in it. His flat was always a horrible mess, equipment flung everywhere and the stench of chemicals and experimentation filling the air. His rooms appeared to be the embodiment of pandemonium, but everything was in its proper place.

Sherlock struggled into a more upright position and worked to deduce from the room how long he had been in this wretched place and how long until he could leave. He had just decided it had been at least 24 hours since his overdose when the door burst open and Mycroft strode purposefully in. Umbrella clutched in his right hand, Mycroft marched to the end of his brother's bed and glowered at him.

"Must you always make such a dramatic entrance, Mycroft?" Sherlock questioned lazily, already growing bored by Mycroft's presence. Clearly unamused, his brother simply narrowed his eyes, his pale blue glare piercing through Sherlock's veneer of apathy. It was clear he was not playing into Sherlock's charade; he was waiting for an explanation.

"What would you have me say?" Sherlock sighed, turning from Mycroft's harsh gaze. "I made a miscalculation. It won't happen again, I assure you."

"I know it won't." Mycroft responded, his voice hard and angry.

Startled, Sherlock turned his gaze back to his brother. Mycroft stood stiffly, his shoulders hunched slightly, no doubt tightened by stress and frustration. The dark bags under his eyes indicated a sleepless night or two, and his hand twitched, as if he were fighting the urge to run it through his hair or across his face in irritation, or to grab his brother and attempt to shake sense into him.

Sherlock, at a loss for words to stop the lecture he knew was coming, simply raised an eyebrow and bade his brother to continue.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Mycroft ranted, his grip on his umbrella tightening in fury. "You are the most idiotic genius I have ever encountered, and it horrifies me to know that I had a hand in raising you. I gave you everything it was in my power to give, and this is how you repay me? You destroy your mind and your body with these pointless, worthless chemicals?

You are a disgrace to your own intelligence, Sherlock Holmes, and an insult to mine. I won't have it. I sat by and waited for you to grow up, but clearly you can't do even that on your own. So, as always, I shall have to help you along. But this ends now, Sherlock. You will stop this madness."

As his brother spoke, Sherlock's insides twisted and burned in anger. Mycroft had no right, none at all, to tell him how to live. He would not be bullied into submission because Mycroft had once again decided to butt his overly large nose where it didn't belong. To act as if, all of a sudden, he **cared** what happened to Sherlock.

Matching his brother's glare with one of his own, Sherlock answered "Oh, will I?" His voice every bit as cold and unfeeling as Mycroft's. Were he able to stand, he would have drawn up to his full height, pressed into his brother's personal space, and showed him that he would not be intimidated.

As if reading his mind, Mycroft stepped forward, towering over Sherlock's prone form to sneer down at him. "Yes, Sherlock. You will."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had been quick to roll his eyes and ignore Mycroft's threats, but he learned quickly that it was a mistake to underestimate his older brother. When the shaking and sweating customary of withdrawal began, Sherlock began to text his many dealers, only to receive no answer. After an hour of increasingly-frantic typing, his fears were confirmed by a single text.<p>

_Your usual dealers have been taken into custody. All others remaining within a 20 mile radius have been issued a photograph of you along with a warning not to supply you with anything. I assure you no amount of money will convince them to take the risk.-MH_

Infuriated, Sherlock contemplated throwing the phone against the wall. While it may have provided temporary relief, it would have done him no good, so he refrained. Stomach churning in anger, he typed out a reply.

_Having dental work done again? Must be all the cake. Perhaps I should have all of your favorite bakers arrested. I do so worry about your health, dear brother. -SH_

Mycroft's reply was swift and resolute.

_Do not try to play the victim with me, brother. I know you far too well for that. You're to be discharged within the hour. I'll be sending someone to pick you up. Try not to cause too much trouble. -MH_

* * *

><p>When Mycroft's men came for him, Sherlock was sure to give them hell. He refused to dress himself, crushed four sets of toes with the wheelchair he was forced into, made three attempts at escape, and made two nurses cry with harsh sarcasm and unwanted deductions.<p>

Exhausted by his efforts and shaking with the beginnings of withdrawals, Sherlock resorted to sulking for the seemingly endless journey to their destination: a small, modest cottage far out into the countryside. As he was escorted to the door, he was already forming 3 different plans of escape.

Mycroft greeted him with an arrogant sneer, though his eyes lacked the fire from their previous encounter. "None of your escape plans will work, little brother." He mocked. "Even if you manage to evade my watch long enough to leave the house, you won't get very far. The men who brought you here are leaving, as you can see, and there are no other vehicles on the premises. The nearest neighbor is more than a mile away, a distance you wouldn't make in your condition, I assure you"

Though Mycroft's tone was derisive, there was something off about him. Sherlock, however, was too preoccupied with his frustration and growing nausea to figure out what it was. One thing was certainly clear, Sherlock thought as he felt his skin seem to crawl and his body swayed with dizziness, there would be no escaping while he was this ill.

The wave of nausea wracking his body was quickly replaced with a wave of anger. He was trapped here, at his brother's will. Mycroft was truly going to sit and watch him suffer through withdrawal pains and he had absolutely no choice in the matter. That fat prick was doing this just to entertain himself! Politics must have gotten boring, and now he was going to take some time off to watch Sherlock go through this agony just to satisfy his perverse power complex!

When Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother's dark expression, Sherlock shoved past him to find his room and lock himself in it. He moved to quickly too see the way his older brother's face mask crumbled with a grimace.

* * *

><p>Sherlock lay on the cold tiles of the bathroom, panting. His stomach had been empty for hours, but that didn't stop it from churning with nausea. Exhausted from the endless retching, he was unable to move from his curled up position. It was horrible enough being trapped in this wretched cottage on his brother's whim, but now he felt trapped within his own body.<p>

"Comfortable?" A smug voice asked from the doorway.

Groaning, Sherlock mustered the strength to glare at his brother, who was leaning against the door with a smirk. He opened his mouth to retort, but snapped it shut as another wave of nausea rolled over him. As he bent over the toilet once more, he heard Mycroft's footsteps approaching. The elder brother bent down for a second and seemed to hesitate for the briefest of moments before rising. When Sherlock was able to lift his gaze, there was a glass of water beside him and his brother was retreating.

With the last of his strength, Sherlock managed to lob the glass at Mycroft before returning to heaving. The glass was dodged, unfortunately, and Sherlock focused on plotting his revenge until his nausea mercifully ceased and he succumbed to sleep.

* * *

><p>Despite the fact that it was an abnormally warm day, Sherlock shook uncontrollably. Trembling with cold sweats, he lay on the sofa, too weak to do more than glare out the window and ignore Mycroft. His older brother was reading in an armchair beside him, the picture of calm contentment in the face of Sherlock's agony. The weak addict's hands clenched into fists as he observed his brother lounging happily, lazily turning the pages of his book. It was torture enough to be put through this without Mycroft there to mock his misery at every turn.<p>

Finally, Mycroft rose with a smirk and left the room for a moment. Returning a moment later, he tossed a quilt over the sofa back. It was an old quilt, permeated with the smell of mothballs and memories of lazy mornings curled at his brother's side while Mycroft read to him.

"I can hardly think over your teeth chattering." Mycroft taunted.

His brother's jeering quickly eradicated any warm feelings the quilt might have produced. Sherlock snarled at Mycroft as he wrapped the quilt around his shivering body, cursing his body for making it necessary.

"Need me to tuck you in, little brother?" Mycroft added, before returning to his book.

Sherlock didn't notice the shaking or sweating as he cursed his sibling under his breath for the next hour. He also didn't notice the twinge of hurt in Mycroft's eyes as he wordlessly accepted the attack.

* * *

><p>"Don't you look lovely this morning." Mycroft greeted as he breezed past his brother.<p>

Sherlock could barely manage to glare. He hadn't slept a wink the night before, nightmares, nausea, and shivers combining to keep him awake all night. He was exhausted, irritable, and his body was failing him. Even worse, this was all against his will. Not only was Mycroft forcing this on him, but he had the gall to mock him while he suffered as well. Sherlock had had enough.

"Mycroft you abominable prick!" Sherlock ranted. He was beyond frustrated with his brother. Detoxing was a terrible ordeal, and Mycroft was making it no easier with his snark. Shouting out his frustrations, Sherlock made this very clear. As he tossed every insult he could image at his brother, he was shocked to see a flash of pain on Mycroft's face. Just for one moment, the quickest of seconds, a look of hurt paled the elder sibling's face, before it was once more schooled into an uncaring smirk.

Anger quickly forgotten, Sherlock paused in his tirade to gape at his brother. Certainly, his words were meant to sting, but they had never worked before. Mycroft knew better than to take his words to heart and stopped being affected by his ranting years ago. Sherlock had assumed that he couldn't be bothered to care either way, particularly with how obnoxious he had been during this ordeal. And yet there had been no mistaking the look on Mycroft's face.

With that single instant of vulnerability, Mycroft's farce was revealed to his brother. Sherlock could see it now, appalled that he didn't before. Everything about his older brother's demeanor had been off since he had arrived. Every jab and sneer now seemed forced and weak, as if Mycroft's every action was contrary to what he really wished to do. Looking his brother's carefully masked face now, Sherlock saw only hurt and concern, and berated himself for being fool enough not to notice it before. He was clearly blind when it came to Mycroft's intentions, and his weak and drug-addled mind was no excuse whatsoever.

Playing back every moment in his head, Sherlock easily saw what Mycroft had been playing at. Each time his brother had mocked or irritated him, Sherlock had focused all of his misery on his anger, on plotting revenge and cursing his sibling. It had been a perfect distraction, the only his pride would let him accept. It was much better to imagine poisoning Mycroft's cake than to wallow in his pain and cravings, after all.

As the realization of the depth of his brother's deceit sank in, Sherlock fought a wave of anger. Mycroft had been a prat on purpose, simply to manipulate him into forgetting his physical discomfort. Sherlock was aware he should be grateful, and he supposed somewhere beneath the irritation at both his brother's deception and his own inability to notice, he was grateful. Mycroft's plan had worked, after all.

Sherlock was forced to admit, if only to himself, that he had misjudged Mycroft once again. It was perfectly clear to him now that his brother had found no more enjoyment in this than he had. He was simply doing the little he could to ease his wayward sibling's path.

Mycroft, smirk firmly back in place, arched an eyebrow. "Run out of insults already, have you? My, how your vocabulary has suffered."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before replying. It was difficult to muster up his previous anger now that Mycroft's mask seemed so transparent. He could practically see the _caring_ seeping out from behind it. Forcing his eyes from his brother's face, Sherlock returned to his verbal attack, though it now lacked it's previous fire. The distraction was less effective now that he was aware of it, but it was still all that he had to keep him going. There would be time for gratitude later.

* * *

><p>The car had been driving for 20 minutes before Sherlock admitted to himself that he hadn't the faintest clue where Mycroft's people were taking him. They had blown past all of the areas Mycroft usually chose for his flats, passed all of the offices and shops where Sherlock found work. They had missed the turn offs for all of the medical and rehab facilities in the area. Sherlock's theories about their destination were being disproven as fast as he could make them.<p>

Finally, after Sherlock had given up on attempting to guess their destination and began staring sulkily out the window to avoid the PA's smirk, the car slowed to a halt. Trying not to appear too curious, Sherlock glanced at their location and felt his blood run cold. They were parked outside the New Scotland Yard. What could they possibly be doing here? Had Mycroft decided the only safe place for his brother was prison? He wouldn't have Sherlock arrested...would he?

Sherlock's panic must have shown on his face, because Mycroft's assistant let out quiet chuckle. He turned back to her to see her smiling mysteriously, eyes never leaving her phone.

"Mr. Holmes says you're to go to the second office on the third floor. There will be a man inside called Inspector Lestrade. You're to tell him you're clean, and mention the consulting job your brother spoke to him about."

Sherlock froze. He vaguely recognized the name Lestrade; it was the officer who brought him in. But what was this lark about a consulting job? Clearly Sherlock had missed something, and he struggled to sort it out. At this point it was clear that Mycroft had no intention of having him locked up, much to Sherlock's relief. Obviously, Lestrade and his brother had spoken during his time in the hospital, the apparent topic of their discussion this "consulting job" for him. _This_ was where Mycroft expected him to seek employment? What on earth was he meant to do at _Scotland Yard_?

All at once, the information seemed to piece together perfectly, the final puzzle piece falling to place, the realization jolting Sherlock like a physical slap. _A consulting job._ Sherlock had overdosed at a crime scene; the officer there was Lestrade. The inspector had witnessed Sherlock's deductions, had discovered Sherlock's talent for crime solving just as Sherlock himself did.

Sherlock had no interest in police work, but as he recalled the details of the crime scene, the feel of deduction after deduction catching his eye, the adrenalin rush as they formed an image piece by piece, until the puzzle was solved, he understood what his brother was offering him. Solving the crime had been something new: a different kind of high. Mycroft was giving him a new drug, a harmless one. He was offering his brother a way to save himself.

Sherlock was overwhelmed by a multitude of emotions. Disbelief, gratitude, and guilt all flooded him simultaneously. He had been wrong once again about his brother. Mycroft had always gone to great trouble to keep him safe, not now he was giving his brother the key to his own recovery. Sherlock had never been particularly good at reading his sibling's intentions, but this made it clear that Mycroft did not act out of malice or spite, but truly out of caring and concern. It was knowledge that Sherlock hadn't the faintest idea how to deal with.

A discreet cough from the forgotten PA beside him startled the detective-to-be from his thoughts. "I've got a meeting to be at, so unless you have a message for Mr. Holmes..." she trailed off, nodding towards the car door in an obvious sign to leave.

Composing himself, Sherlock pulled his coat collar up close to his face and opened the car door. As the brisk cold greeted him, he turned back to Mycroft's assistant. "Tell my brother..."

Tell him _what_, exactly? _I understand what you're doing for me, what you've always done for me? I'm sorry that I doubted you? Thank you?_ None of those would do. Neither of them were prone to such emotional statements. It simply wasn't a part of their relationship. Mycroft was intelligent; he knew what he had done for his brother. Acknowledging it would only make his big head even worse.

"...tell him that he's an arrogant prat, and if he ever kidnaps me again, I will tell Mummy."

Without giving the PA time to respond, Sherlock exited the car smoothly. Stepping on the pavement outside Scotland Yard, he lifted his gaze to the nearest CCTV camera. Just as he expected, it pivoted immediately to focus on him, undoubtedly controlled by his meddling older brother. Allowing the barest of smiles to cross his face before he turned away, Sherlock decided that accepting Mycroft's gift to him was the best expression of gratitude he could ever give his brother, and the only one Mycroft would need.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Oh my god you guys I finally updated! It's been exactly 4 months. I'm so sorry it took so long! I could give you pages of excuses, but I'll narrow it down to this: laziness, finals, work, Supernatural. Anyway, I swear it won't take me this long ever again! I have the last 4 chapters written, I just edit them a bit. This story should be finished within a week or so!_

_Please review!_


	17. Moriarty

_A/N: Remember when I said I'd have the rest of this posted in like a week? Haha that was funny. Turns out my voice has changed a ton since I wrote these and editing them is giving me a lot of trouble. It's sort of a hard thing to fix, so if it seems different that's why. Also I'm sort of jsut getting desperate to finish because I have other ideas I want to write and I just want this done. 3 more chapters left! The next will likely take me a while since it was the worst written of the 4 and I'm heading back to school for a while. Bear with me, hopefully it won't be much longer guys._

_Reviews are what keep me going, please take a few seconds to leave me some feedback!_

* * *

><p>The next five years were the easiest Mycroft had faced since Sherlock was a child. Now that his brother was safely occupied under DI Lestrade's watchful eye, the amount of necessary surveillance had been reduced significantly. It was the healthiest Sherlock had been in years, and the sight of it was an enormous weight off of Mycroft's shoulders. He still worried about his younger brother, of course. He likely always would, but his worries were lessened greatly by Sherlock's new lifestyle.<p>

Though the Holmes brothers saw each other very little over those years, both would admit-if only to themselves-that their relationship had improved exponentially. All of the resentment and anger Sherlock had carried had drained away with the last of the drugs in his system. Of course, neither man could set aside his pride long enough to admit fault or convey affection, but that was simply the Holmes way. Both had accepted long ago that the closeness and comfort of their childhood relationship was not something they could reclaim as adults. The possibly unhealthy codependency of their youth had been outgrown and was no longer desired by either brother. As each brother found himself in a dangerous line of work, open closeness between them would only lead to weakness. Mycroft knew that he would never dare let Sherlock be used against him, let alone subject his little brother to that sort of difficulty.

Once he pushed aside the irrational twinge of jealousy, Sherlock's relationship with the newly promoted Lestrade warmed his long-frozen heart. Lestrade was one of the few who could see past Sherlock's cold facade to the great potential hidden behind it. It was quite a relief to see Sherlock in a career that suited him, working with a man he respected.

Even more of a relief for Mycroft was when Sherlock finally found a flatmate who would never abandon him: John Watson. Mycroft felt he would forever be indebted to the short soldier, his brother's first true friend. While Lestrade had been a respected authority, a reason to stay clean and an occupation from his mind, John had become a beloved companion. John forced Sherlock to eat, encouraged him to be less offensive and discouraged his destructive behaviors. John made the young detective the most human he had ever been. With the comfort of his newfound companion to keep him satisfied, Mycroft found himself abandoning his surveillance. It was no longer necessary. Sherlock was the healthiest and happiest that Mycroft had ever seen him.

Then came James Moriarty.

* * *

><p>Mycroft sat in his office, fighting the urge to pace. His assistant should be arriving with Sherlock shortly. His brother had refused to meet with him, of course, but this was far more important than their silly feud. He had failed, he had made a horrible mistake. Certainly, he had made mistakes before, but those petty errors paled in comparison to this. He had completely disregarded his little brother's safety and now Sherlock was in great danger. How could he look his brother in the eye now?<p>

"Kidnapping, Mycroft? Really?" Sherlock entered unannounced, as always. "I never thought you'd stoop so low."

"Sherlock..."

"What are you going to do, big brother," the dark-haired man drawled, "send me to my room for not coming when you called?"

"Sherlock-"

"Honestly, Mycroft, last I checked we _do_ still have a mother. I hardly need you to-"

"SHERLOCK!"

Sherlock paused, shock evident on his face for a brief second. Even in their most tense moments, Mycroft brother almost never raised his voice. All illusion of indifference and annoyance faded form his little brother's face as Sherlock realized the importance of the situation.

Mycroft struggled to speak. He had never felt so helpless in his life. It was not a feeling he enjoyed.

"I made a mistake, Sherlock" Mycroft admitted. His brother simply raised an eyebrow.

"You've made many, brother. If this is one of those...apology things... you can save your breath. We've been through this-"

Mycroft cut his brother off once again. "No. Not this time. I-I've put you in danger."

Sherlock paled at his brother's stutter. Mycroft never stuttered. Never. He was always eloquent, always sure of his words. Seeing the dread settle on Sherlock's face, Mycroft forced himself to speak calmly.

"It's James Moriarty. We've had our eye on him for some time, He is a psychopath, the most dangerous man we've ever encountered. We have been monitoring him of course, and after that incident with Miss Adler, we decided to...get to know him better. We discovered he was in the possession of a dangerous bit of technology. He was brought in for questioning and refused to cooperate. He was subjected to our usual methods of extraction, but nothing would loosen his tongue."

Mycroft's composure crumbled slightly. His always impeccable posture hunched, as he scrubbed a hand over his face. He continued, looking painfully weary.

"Eventually, I attempted to question him personally. I was the only one he would speak to. He wouldn't say much, but he told me he would give me information. I, however, would have to give him information as well: information about you."

Sherlock appeared to relax somewhat. Watching worriedly, Mycroft easily deduced his brother's thought process. Both of the Holmes brothers had witnessed Moriarty's particular brand of psychosis. A psychopath with an intimate knowledge of his life, while terribly interesting, would be incredibly hazardous. Mycroft was painfully overbearing. He would never-

Sherlock's eyed widened suddenly. Apprehension filled Mycroft as Sherlock took in his brother's miserably haggard appearance. The lines on his brother's brow and the guilt in his eyes told him all he needed to know.

"You gave it to him." Sherlock's voice was quiet with disbelief, his face blank with shock. Mycroft didn't blame him. He had sold Sherlock out, traded the safety of the brother he had once sworn to protect, all for some measly information. His brother had truly betrayed him-to James Moriarty, the one man that was a match for either he or Mycroft.

Mycroft bowed his head in an admission of guilt. "It was a matter of national importance. I had little choice."

"I assume you failed to imprison him, seeing as you are warning me now." The younger brother's voice was unreadable. Mycroft looked up, searching his brother's face for signs of fear or anger.

"I have already increased my surveillance on your residence. If my men value their lives, then I will know the second he moves against you. I can assign a security detail to anyone you want protected. Come to me as soon as he contacts you. Between the two of us, we should be able to decipher his plans. I have more than considerable influence with the police. I can-"

"I think you've done more than enough, Mycroft." Sherlock's voice, cold as ice, cut through his brother's guilty ramblings. His frigid blue glare froze Mycroft to the spot, as the older brother desperately searched for a way to remedy his mistake. Without another word, Sherlock gracefully stood and swept out the door, not bothering to look back.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock." Mycroft whispered to an empty office.


	18. John

Sitting across from a fuming John Watson, Mycroft Holmes held a blood-stained handkerchief to his face. Of course, he had been expecting John's visit. The physical violence was a tad unexpected, however. He may have underestimated the soldier's reaction just a bit. If he had expected it, he certainly would have covered his face before the army doctor grabbed Mycroft by his perfectly pressed shirt and smashed a fist into his face.

"You've broken my nose." There was no accusation in Mycroft's statement, only acceptance of the facts. John remained silent; his face twitching into a smug expression before settling back into it's stony countenance.

"I don't suppose you'd be willing to set it for me?" Mycroft continued, unfazed by the doctor's harsh glare. "You did take an oath, after all, did you not?"

John rose without a word, irritation radiating off of him in waves. Mycroft bit back a gasp and cursed his watering eyes as the short man roughly forced the bones of his nose back into alignment. "Ah. Thank you, Doctor Watson."

John collapsed back into his chair, a strangled sound escaping his throat. The violent anger from minutes ago had worn itself out, leaving only raw pain behind. Mycroft observed quietly as a myriad of emotions flashed across John's face. The man was clearly wrestling with his despair over Sherlock's death, as well as his anger and confusion over Mycroft's role in it. He looked lost, opening and closing his mouth a few times before finally finding his voice.

"How-how could you do that? Your own brother, and he's...he's gone. All because of you. You betrayed him, and then...you didn't even lift a finger to help him! Sher...he needed you. He was too proud to admit it, but you knew he did. And you-god, you don't even look upset. Your brother is dead, Mycroft. _Dead._ Do you even _care?"_

Silence settled between them for a moment as Mycroft collected himself. He had predicted that John would be angry, had even assumed there would be a confrontation of some sort. He hadn't, however, thought that the man's accusations would sting him so. It's not as if they were true, anyway. He had done a great deal to orchestrate Sherlock's "death." He had not abandoned his brother in his time of need, yet the harsh words still seemed to crack his barriers. Fighting down the urge to tell John just how wrong he was, he forced himself to remain calm and indifferent.

"Will caring bring Sherlock back, John?" Mycroft softly inquired. "If I weep over my brother's grave, will it change what has happened?" Mycroft was unsure of how to proceed. He clearly was not putting on a proper show of grief over his brother's "death." He never was as good of an actor as Sherlock. He supposed the truth would have to suffice.

"Of course I care." He continued, his voice still gentle, almost hesitant. "I...always cared. If anything, I cared too much."

John scoffed. His eyes rolled as he muttered something sounding suspiciously like "bloody ridiculous" under his breath.

Ignoring the doctor, Mycroft sat back in his chair and spoke again. "I was a very lonely child, Doctor Watson."

"For goodness sake-" John huffed in anger, standing as if to leave.

"John. Please." Mycroft cut him off sharply. As John sank begrudgingly back into his seat, Mycroft proceed.

"Possessing higher intelligence than one's peers tends to lead to a very poor social life. From the beginning you don't quite...fit in. Bullies, teachers, even parents: no one quite understands. I was utterly alone, yet my solitude is what taught me to cope."

Mycroft's voice remained steady, completely stoic in his delivery. His childhood troubles hardly bothered him anymore; he wasn't some ordinary sap incapable of putting the past behind him. He was simply relaying facts. He could not tell John the truth about Sherlock's survival and his hand in it, but he could try to make his understand his reasoning.

"I am not one to repeat mistakes, John, and I learned quickly how to handle myself, how to blend in. Ordinary people don't really care what you do, so long as you pretend to play their games and jump through their hoops. It was a lesson I learned after a few...difficult experiences."

John cut in with an exasperated groan. "Why are you telling me this? Why the hell should I care?" He sighed, and received only a raised eyebrow in response.

"When Sherlock was a child, I was old enough to recognize my own intelligence in him. I knew the experiences that waited for him and I found myself unable to stand idly by and watch it. I was..._protective_ of him. I didn't want him to be alone like I had been, not when I could spare him from it.

"And so I coddled him. I meant to be a gentler form of the teacher life had been for me, but I got carried away. Instead I became the one who fixed everything. I taught him nothing except to rely on me to solve his every problem. It was unhealthy, of course. On some level, I knew it was, and yet it was so...refreshing to not be alone anymore: to be wanted, to be _needed_. I had discovered a mind as luminous as my own and I was selfishly determined to protect it. I convinced myself I was helping him, but deep within my mind, I knew I was doing him more harm then good.

"He never learned to look after himself." Mycroft continued, a lifetime of frustration over this fact leaking into his voice. "When he was eight years old, he had gotten himself in trouble with another child. By the time I was eight, I learned to talk any bully out of their anger. In fact, I had already learned to avoid such problems by simply keeping my opinions to myself. Sherlock hadn't. He didn't even _try_ to help himself. I watched, waiting until he was in immediate danger to interfere, hoping he would do something, _anything_ other than expect me to rescue him. But he didn't.

"I tried, after that, to give him more room to learn." Mycroft's voice softened, regret taking the place of irritation in his tone. "I truly did, but it was too late. There was no way to both protect him and teach him to protect himself; there was no way to let him learn those lessons and also retain his affections. And, of course, once he felt I had let him down, he refused my help completely."

Mycroft stopped speaking, looking at John for the first time since his speech began. John looked unimpressed. The hurt and uncertainty of before had faded back into cold distaste towards the politician. If Mycroft had been searching for absolution, he would not find it here.

"Well, that's truly touching, Mycroft. I thought he was just born socially challenged. Turns out you _made _him that way. Good job of it, too."

This time, when the doctor made to leave, Mycroft let him. It had been a pointless endeavor anyway. John was a simple man; he needed somewhere to lay the blame for his loss, and Mycroft was his only living option. It had been frivolous of his to even attempt any sort of reconciliation between them. The politician didn't move a muscle as John walked from the room, a slight limp returning to his gait. The doors swung shut without another word being spoken.

Mycroft Holmes was, once again, utterly alone.

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><p><em>AN: As always, sorry it took so long for me to update. I swear I'm not abandoning this, especially not when I'm so close to finishing. Just bear with me. Only two chapters left!_

_Please review, I promise they mean the world to me and encourage me to get to posting faster!_


	19. Dealing with Death

Mycroft hated emotional scenes. Ordinary people were just so prone to fits of sobbing and rage. It was pathetic, really. Such things never solved problems. So as Mycroft stood at the edge of the cemetery grounds, observing as Sherlock watched his friend, he was glad that John Watson was not inclined towards such displays. As the soldier lifted his head, straightened his shoulders, turned sharply and marched away from "Sherlock's" grave, Mycroft approached his brother.

"You shouldn't be here. You can't risk being seen." Mycroft spoke softly, not wanting to intrude on his sibling's obvious sorrow. Sherlock ignored him. After John disappeared from sight, he asked softly, "You'll watch out for him, won't you?"

"He'll be fine, Sherlock." The elder Holmes was quick to reassure. It would be difficult enough to take down Moriarty's crime ring without Sherlock constantly worrying about John. "He's a grown man, a soldier. He's used to loss, I'm sure he'll cope." With a huff of irritation, Sherlock finally turned to his brother.

"You don't understand!" Sherlock exclaimed, his strong emotions taking his brother by surprise. "You assume he's ordinary, but he's like me. He needs danger; he craves it. Ordinary life won't be enough for him. He'll go looking for trouble and I won't be there when he finds it!"

Mycroft bowed his head, acknowledging his brother's request. Some part of him rejoiced at the devotion in Sherlock's voice, reveling in the profoundness of this unlikely friendship. He also ached, however, at the long separation they faced. He had always hoped Sherlock would find a friend like John, and now he could well lose that friend forever.

"I will keep you updated." He replied quietly. "Are you ready? It's time for you to go."

Holding out his hand in a hesitant offering, he was surprised when Sherlock grasped it strongly, giving it a firm shake.

"Come home soon, brother."

As Sherlock dashed away, his coat billowing behind him dramatically, considered his earlier deliberations and Mycroft changed his mind. Sometimes, life called for a bit of an emotional scene.

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><p>Mycroft was true to his word; he kept Sherlock informed. He was never in one place for long, yet his brother always found him. At any given time and location, Sherlock found short notes slipped into his pockets or pressed into his palm by passing strangers. Each message was short and direct, not telling Sherlock nearly as much as he wanted to know, but just enough to keep him going.<p>

It was these messages, in the long months of hiding, stalking, and fighting, that kept him human. They reminded him that when this was over, he had friends and a home to return to. He had people to fight for. Each mention of John gave him hope of the renewal of their friendship. Each "Come home soon" was an encouragement to finish his work as quickly as he could, to return to those he loved. He kept them with him always. In his few moments of rest, he pulled them out, reading them again and again, ingraining the words in his mind.

"John has resumed appointments with that idiotic therapist. Come home soon, brother."

"Lestrade has been solving cases surprisingly well without you."

"He regrets doubting you."

"John's psychosomatic limp is back. Come home soon, brother."

"Even Donovan and Anderson are showing signs of remorse."

"John has taken another job at the surgery."

"He knows it's not enough. Come home soon."

"Mrs. Hudson has cleared your possessions from 221B. She intended to sell them, but John convinced her to give them to me."

"John hasn't set foot in the flat. Come home soon."

"John has moved in with his sister."

"He goes out regularly for pints with Lestrade."

"He still believes in you."

"He still pays his half of the rent. I pay yours. Come home soon."

"John is dating again."

"It isn't going any better than when you were physically there to force the women to compete for his attention."

"I now pay all of the rent on 221B."

"John is getting restless. Come home."

"John and Lestrade had a falling out. John still refuses to believe the lies. Come home."

"John is considering reenlisting in the army. Please come home."

"He won't survive another war. Please come home."

"John is in the park."

"He will be angry when he sees you."

"Block your face, unless you want a broken nose."

"Welcome home, little brother."

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><p><em>AN: I'm not really thrilled with how this one turned out, but I think this was a good as it was going to get. Only one chapter left!_


	20. Everything

In the middle of a large, expensive office, the man rumored to be The British Government worked furiously at his desk. Tensions were mounting between no fewer than five countries, all because one obtuse ambassador had unintentionally insulted someone's hat. Really, government officials could be so petty. One careless comment, and Mycroft was forced to do hours of damage control. He was so engrossed in his work, he nearly didn't hear the familiar footsteps approaching. The door swung open. His assistant always knocked, the rest of his staff never dared disturb him. That only left one person. Slowly setting his work aside, Mycroft lifted his eyes to the figure paused in his doorway. For the first time in nearly a year, the Holmes brothers locked gazes.

For a moment, Mycroft could only stare. He had known Sherlock was alive from the start, obviously. Yet after all those months of pretending his brother was dead, seeing him alive and well seemed nothing short of a miracle. Clearing his throat, Mycroft forced away such sentimental thoughts. Sherlock would only mock them. He searched for a way to break the silence that had descended like an icy curtain between the brothers.

"I see you didn't heed my warning. I told you to block your face." Mycroft spoke quietly, taking note of the purpling bruise on his brother's pale cheek with a smirk. Sherlock stepped slowly into the room, still staring at Mycroft as if seeing him for the first time. When he spoke, it was not his usual loud arrogance, but something much gentler, as if he himself didn't quite believe his ordeal was over.

"Yes, well I...erm...overestimated how long it would take him to proceed from shock to anger."

Mycroft chuckled, replying "Well he must still like you, if your nose remained intact." At his brother's questioning look, he elaborated. "The first and last time I saw your dear doctor after your funeral, he burst into the Diogenes Club, loudly informed me that I was a 'heartless bastard' and had killed my own brother, and then proceeded to break my nose." Sherlock's eyes widened for a moment, and then his deep laughter filled the office.

"I knew there was something I liked about that man" Sherlock chuckled. Setting aside his pride, Mycroft allowed himself to laugh with his brother for the first time in years.

As their laughter faded, Mycroft studied his younger sibling. Sherlock was, if possible, even thinner than when he left. His hair had grown, and his usually clean shaven face was covered in stubble. His face was haggard; obviously he had slept little. He seemed to have aged years in the months he was away, yet he also radiated with triumph. His posture no longer communicated arrogance and defiance, but instead revealed a maturity and deep pride that were previously foreign to him.

This time it was Sherlock who broke the silence. "You've lost weight. Diet's working well then." Mycroft resisted the urge to roll his eyes in response to his brother's smirk.

"Well it is considerably more difficult keeping you out of trouble when you're a dashing about the globe." he responded. Sherlock opened his mouth, most likely to deny needing Mycroft's help, but then closed it with a snap. That was a first. Sherlock never turned down an opportunity to direct a snide remark at his brother. Maybe there was hope for them yet.

Sherlock averted his eyes, suddenly looking small and unsure, like the little boy he once was. "Yes, erm...I...thank you. You were...what you did for me...it was good. I couldn't have done this alone."

Mycroft's jaw almost dropped. He had never thought he would again see the day where his brother thanked him instead of taunting him, looked at him with gratitude instead of resentment.

Gathering himself, he smiled gently at Sherlock. "I promised you long ago that I would always be there to look after you, even when you didn't want me to. Perhaps you deleted it, but I did not. You are my brother, Sherlock, and while I may have failed you in the past, I have only ever wanted the best for you. Please believe that."

It was a risk, baring himself to Sherlock this way. For years any attempt to reconcile the chasm between them had been met with hostility. Yet Mycroft could not stop the hope that blossomed in his chest when Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes warm and open.

"I never deleted anything you said to me, Mycroft. I couldn't. I could delete Mummy and Nanny and sometimes I can even delete John...but not you. Never you."

Mycroft had no words to reply with. He slowly rose and rounded his desk, stopping when he was face to face with Sherlock. He opened his arms slightly in the subtlest of invitations, giving Sherlock the chance to reject him. Instead, the younger man took a step forward, allowing his brother to put his arms around him for the first time in over two decades.

It was not a moment in a movie. It was an awkward embrace, both participants wary and unsure. It did not fix everything that had happened between the brothers, but there would be time for that. Mycroft knew that Sherlock would never again look upon him with adoration, like he had as a child. They could never go back to the way they used to be. Yet in that moment, with his little brother safe in his arms once again, it was enough. It was more than enough. It was everything.

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><p><em>AN: Well, there you have it. It's over. Kinda weird to imagine. But now I can finally move on to some of my other story ideas! Thanks for reading! I really enjoyed writing this and I hope you enjoyed reading it just as much!_

_Please review! It's your last chance to ;)_


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